It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy !
by supernaturaljunkiejude
Summary: COWRITTEN WITH VANESSA SGROI  A series of bizarre and brutal murders lure the Winchester brothers into their next hunt.  Only this time, in the thick of the hunt, they find themselves stalked and terrorized by something out of one of Sam’s worst nightmare
1. Chapter 1

_**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy**__**! Chapter 1**___

Law offices of Jennings, Braun and Bryant 

Intensely scouring through the thick manila briefs on his newest client, Ted Jennings actually growled aloud, firing his new Cross pen across the room in an immature tantrum, as his intercom buzzed¸ disrupting his concentration.

Angrily mashing the answer button, he snarled, "What the hell is it now, Beth? How many times do I have to tell you? I don't want to be disturbed! This had better be good!"

Beth's timid, young voice trembled through the speaker. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Jennings… It's your client, Mr. Scofield. He's called seven times already. I've tried to put him off, but this time he says if you don't talk to him, he's coming down here and it won't be pretty. I don't know what else to do…"

Sighing, rubbing at his instantly throbbing temples, Ted closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath as he prepared himself for the onslaught. One more defeated sigh, "Alright, Beth, put him through, but that's it! No more callers!" _Damned asshole! Never should have taken that friggin' case! God! I just want this to end!_

Taking a breath to hopefully calm the aggravation in his voice, he hit the line button on his phone console, "Ted Jennings here. How can I help you?"

He listened impatiently to the man on the other end of the phone line.

Finally, the strident voice paused for a breath amidst the screaming tirade and Ted, forever the lawyer, seized the opportunity, jumping into the verbal fray with both feet.

"Dammit, Buttons, how many times have I told you, there's no point to making any more of these harassing phone calls? Case closed! It's a moot point! We fought a tough battle, and we lost the case. Stop acting like a damned fool! Don't you dare question my handling of your case! I did everything--absolutely everything—I could, legally, to break that will. You sat right there beside me and heard the judge's decree just like I did! Iron clad will. Case closed! Done deal! No appeal! Now leave me and my staff the hell alone, or I'll be forced to take my own legal steps to restrain you."

It was painfully obvious that his words had fallen on totally deaf ears. The ranting voice continued to rave on for another minute or two. Ted held the phone away from him to let the lunatic yelling dispel into the room. _What a friggin' clown! _Finally the cacophony quelled, and he brought the handset once more to his ear.

"Buttons, I'm sorry that you feel that way. Despite what you think, I represented you to the best of my ability. Perhaps you would have been better served by reading that will before you signed as a witness."

The foul language flowed with renewed energy, but Ted had had enough. He forced himself to maintain control and ended the mostly one-sided conversation with a simple, "Well, I'm sorry you take that stance, Buttons. I did everything humanly possible. It just wasn't enough. No lawyer could dig you out of the hole you helped to dig for yourself. Threatening me will get you nowhere! Now, stop calling here!"

Without a second thought, he slammed the handset into the cradle. _How dare that stupid son of a bitch question my loyalties? He'd damned well better give up the ghost on this one, there's nowhere else to go with it! Stupid bastard! If he would've read the damned thing like he was supposed to, that business could've been his. Cut his own damned throat and wants everybody else to save his bacon! Too damned bad!_

Ted spent another hour trying to make sense of the papers in the new files, but it became easily evident he was reading words with no cognitive meanings. He needed a damned break, and he sure as hell was not going to get it here. Pushing out of his fifteen hundred dollar Moroccan leather desk chair, he gathered his jacket and fled to the reception area.

"Beth I need some time away. Going home for lunch. If you need me call, but, not if it's Buttons. I won't talk to him again." With that he turned on his heel, striding through the door to their parking garage. Climbing into his Mercedes, he triggered the convertible switch, hoping a bit of fresh air would clear his mind on the twenty-minute drive.

Eight fairly gridlock-free miles later, the head-turning little convertible sailed quietly through his very wealthy neighborhood, past luscious lawns and sumptuous residences. Ted's home, at a mere eight thousand square feet, was considered one of the smallest in the area. However, once past the classic Mediterranean veranda and exterior, the huge marble foyer led visitors into a tastefully designed and maintained Italian villa. Ted stayed here alone since his messy divorce two years ago and, at times, he ached to hear the patter of his youngest daughter's five-year-old feet beating a tattoo on the marble floors once more. He missed the girls, both Sarah-Anne and her older sister.

Pulling onto the circular drive, his eyes immediately were drawn to the rather large box leaning against the wall, two feet from his oak entrance. Getting much closer and seeing it was addressed to his ten-year-old, Samantha, he carried it into the house, feeling something heavy inside shift as he lifted the eighteen-by-thirty six inch box. Pausing long enough to stand it in the foyer corner, out of the traffic area, he momentarily wondered who would send her a gift to his place. Shrugging, he made a mental note to drop it at her mother's home on the weekend and continued on into the kitchen to fix lunch.

Thirty minutes, two business calls, and a hefty roast beef on whole wheat later, Ted Jennings once again passed through his large foyer as he headed back to the office. Glancing at the big mystery box, he decided to tell Samantha about it when they had their bedtime phone call that night, knowing the anticipation of a treat would really make her look forward to the upcoming weekend.

Relax Inn Somewhere Outside Las Vegas 

"C'mon, Sam. Let's get a move on," Dean growled, pacing impatiently outside their open room door as they readied to leave the '60's themed Relax Inn in their dust. "It's almost checkout time. I'm not forking over any extra cash for overstaying our welcome." The very thought of spending even a few more minutes in that garish, god-awful psychedelic environment made his growling stomach knot. After check-in last night it hadn't looked half bad, not with the lights out and his eyes closed, but sunlight made those colors come alive, and they were screaming now… probably in pain.

Undecided as to their eventual destination, the young hunters would get on the road and just drive. At least the open road was just that, open and beautiful, lush spring scenery in all directions. Fresh air, kick-ass tunes at top volume and brotherly company was all Dean really required and a little supernatural action to break up the monotony every so often. Sam always followed his big brother's lead.

Sam slid out the door, glancing over his shoulder as if being chased, tossing his backpack and rollbag into the Impala's open trunk. Slamming the trunk shut, he grinned, "Shit! Was almost afraid to shower. Figured Andy Warhol's ghost might drop in for a visit. Think we should stop by the office and tell them the new trend is soft, peaceful colors?"

"Naww, another few years and maybe it'll cycle back into style. Isn't it a rule like every forty years it comes back full circle?" Dean snorted.

Easing into the car in a nearly perfect mirror image, the hunters slammed the doors closed in unison. Dean guided the big black car onto the small highway and headed for the closest diner.

"Any good stuff on the internet today, Sammy?"

"Umm, nothing yet, but I'll keep looking. Maybe after breakfast we can get to the next town with a decent library and hit the newspapers."

"Yeah, 'cuz I gotta tellya, I'm getting itchy. We need a hunt." Dean frowned.

Nodding his head, Sam agreed, even he was getting bored.

Jennings Residence 

It was bad enough it had been a crappy day at the office, now the damned sky was threatening to wash away half the hillside homes in the area. Ted had gotten back from lunch to find that Buttons had made good on his threat, and had put in an exceedingly unpleasant personal appearance during Ted's absence.

After a panicked call from Beth, a cadre of cops had stormed in to get things under control. Afterwards, Beth had behaved like the blithering, little, ditzy blond she really was. Tired of dealing with her sniffles and sobs for nearly an hour, Ted opted to send her home for the day. A call, several hours later, had informed him that, "Mr. Scofield had been booked and then released on his own recognizance."

It was nearly 7:30 in the evening as he pulled onto his driveway and, thanks to the sudden thunderstorms, the sky was boiling black. Ted aimed the headlights towards the wide, dark porch, chastising himself mentally for failing to turn on the veranda lights when he'd been home earlier.

_Well, hell! That's why they invented these damn headlight timers!_

Leaning over to snatch his briefcase and the Chinese carryout dinner he'd picked up, he backed rather ungracefully out of the leather interior, just in time to enjoy a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantaneously by a downpour from hell! Fifty feet of running through a truly torrential soaking!

_Crap! Tomorrow I have to call that company and get that stupid canopy installed over the veranda! Damn it!!_

Trying to save time, Ted cut across the corner of the lawn, instantly regretting the move as his Italian leather shoes sunk deeply into the over-saturated grass, immediately filling his shoes with water. As he dove onto the stone veranda, he glanced up to be sure he would hit the door head-on. For a tiny fraction of a second he could have sworn he saw just a glint of something silver flash behind the foyer window. Shaking his head, he looked again. Nothing.

Long-ass, stupid day, Teddy-boy... Seeing things now! Get your ass out of the rain. We need a nice stiff drink, a little dinner and a quiet talk with Samantha and life will look better.

Twisting the key in the lock, he pushed a shoulder hard against the heavy oak door, and as it swung open, stepped over the threshold onto the cool marble floor. Ted quickly realized his sopping wet shoes were not up to the highly polished challenge. His left foot immediately slid across the floor causing him to unceremoniously drop both his expensive briefcase and his dinner as he scrambled to grab the top of an antique secretary's table, hoping to stay upright. Succeeding in at least keeping his feet under him, he angrily kicked his shoes off and toward the corner. Reaching above the table, his hand moved through the darkness, groping for the lightswitch, and gratefully flipped it into the 'on' position.

Nothing…

"What the bloody hell! Shit! No damned lights. Aw, dammit!" A deep frown creased his broad forehead. _Judging by the strong smell of shrimp lo-mein, no supper either, I guess. _Ted loosed a deep sigh and grimaced as he vainly attempted to see anything with clarity in the eighteen-by-twenty foot foyer. He could make out nothing but shadows.

Placing his right palm against the wall, Ted intended to simply guide himself to the sitting room and beyond. Sliding his miserably wet, stockinged feet across the stone floor, he encountered not only the splattered lo-mein noodles, but something else, unfamiliar. Bending over, extending his hand, he found torn, shredded chunks of cardboard. A momentary flash of lightning showed him the remnants of the box he'd brought in earlier that day, looking as if, it'd been torn to pieces by a child having a tantrum!

"What the fuck?!"

Ted eyes flitted nervously about the room, encountering only darkness. Somehow the house felt wrong. It wasn't the wet clothes that were making him feel this chill. Someone else was in his house, Ted was sure of it!

His heart skipped a beat, suddenly veering into high gear as a fear of something unseen, unknown, flooded through his body. Fear seized the attorney, wrapping its freezing fingers around his throat, tightening his airways.

Squinting desperately, trying to refocus his eyes, he peered frantically into the black shadows. A gasp escaping his lips, as Ted saw something shift, a shadow subtly darker than the rest, but smaller than a man. Pushing himself up to his full height, his left hand scrabbled blindly to his jacket pocket, jerking out his cell phone. As his trembling fingers tore it open, the pale blue light from its screen glinted off something very close-by… shiny, silver, sharp and pointed!

The cell phone tumbled from his fingers, clattering to the floor, just as he felt a burning slash rip into his wrist and hand, laying the flesh wide open. Ted let loose a primal scream of pain as the hot blood poured over his cold wet sleeve and skin.

Magically, it seemed, the cell phone slid all the way across the floor, far out of reach, as if it'd been kicked. Ted's horrified eyes searched frantically around the room. His body tensed, ready for anything, but unsure of where to go . Fearful sweating joining the rainwater as it trickled down his frightened features. He gripped his injured arm with its mate, feeling the slick blood covering his skin, imagining a growing pool of it as he stood there, quivering.

That sharp metallic taste of fear in his mouth, and the iron-laden smell of his own blood, drove his confusion and terror into an absolute frenzy. Trying desperately to acclimate to the pitch-black surroundings, his chilled body began to tremble uncontrollably. His mind, sensing mortal danger, urged him to flee.

Quaking, he tried to control his panicked voice. "Who… Who's there?" he demanded, his halting voice hollowly echoing through the empty house.

His answer was a low sinister chuckle from somewhere to his left!

"Surprise!" growled a small, gravelly voice, again chuckling almost demonically at some private joke.

The very sound made the hairs prickle on the back of Ted's neck, like scratching down a blackboard. Gulping, Ted attempted to swallow the terror rising as a lump in his throat. His brain desperately tried to gauge the closeness of the sound.

Near his knees, Ted suddenly felt something brush past him, like a cat with its long serpentine tail briefly reaching out to caress pants legs as it slinks by. This, however, felt more like small teasing fingers! Feeling like ice cubes were running down his spine, he dropped his sight toward his knees, only to see… Nothing!

He gasped sharply, lurching defensively away from that spot. Intending to madly run for the door and the relative safety of the massive thunderstorm outside, he prayed that his assailant was as blind as he. Guessing his exit to be only six to seven steps away, the lawyer spoke, frantically trying again to determine the proximity of the invisible intruder.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he falteringly asked, trying to hide his surging terror, praying his trembling limbs would support him in his flight.

A momentary blinding flash of lightning… His eyes darted quickly around the room. Nothing… _Oh, God, please…! Help me..!_

His breathing coming in shallow, shuddering gasps now as he clawed at his wounded arm, trying to stem the dangerous flow of blood. Stumbling, scrambling desperately, trying to move across the glassy, stone floor and the added hazards of wet Chinese food and shredded, slippery cardboard, Ted nearly fell. Struggling insanely, he managed to maintain his upright stance. If he fell, he knew it was over for him!

Soft scrabbling, rustling noises from his near right, set Ted's heart pounding so loudly that thinking became almost impossible. Frantic, he forced his pain-filled eyes to focus and lunged toward the oaken door, only to be halted mid-stride as screaming, blinding pain overtook both of his lower legs.

Like a felled tree, he toppled to the floor, bellowing like a wounded bull. Floundering, willing his hamstrung legs to move, he got absolutely no response. He felt the warmth of his blood cascading across his lower limbs. The excruciating pain radiating from his calves was nearly too much to bear, bringing with it both pained tears and panic-stricken sobs. His breathing came out ragged, gasping.

Desperately clawing and scratching at the cold marble, trying to crawl towards the door, flailing his arms like a fish out of water, he suddenly felt someone or something step between his legs and viciously kick him in the balls. Instinctively, he tried to roll into a fetal position, only to be kicked again repeatedly in his bloodied wounded calves. All the while that insane laughter accompanied his attacker's actions and his own ear-splitting screams.

That voice again cut through the now terrifying darkness, breathy, rasping, almost gleeful.

"It's not polite to leave the party when you're the guest of honor, Jennings!" Again that demented chuckle filled the air.

Screaming uncontrollably, Ted twisted clumsily onto his belly, hoping to stifle the acidic vomit rising in his constricted throat. Instantly he felt the pressure of something the size of a small child straddling his burning legs, moving upward to seat itself on his buttocks.

Putting forth a titanic effort, Ted struggled vainly to dislodge his unseen foe. His attempts only provoked more maniacal cackling from the being. Ted's heart pounded within his chest, threatening to explode as the terror and hopelessness of his situation sunk in. His chances for survival… Bleak or none at all! His mind flashed momentarily to his beautiful young daughters. _Will they miss their Daddy? Oh, God! Help me! Please…!! My babies…!_

A sulfurous, putrid, decaying stench wafted through the air near Ted's face. Leaning far forward, the thing breathed excitedly into his right ear in that dreaded, deranged whisper.

"Should have been more careful about how you treated clients, Teddy. Some might return just to stab you in the back!" It chuckled evilly at its own wit. "Maybe we should help you get rid of some of that 'hot air' you're so full of…"

With that, Ted began shrieking in pain, as the blade of a large hunting knife punctured his exposed back again and again in a frenzied attack! The creature clung like Velcro to Ted, despite all of his thrashing and bucking. As the blade pierced a lung Ted's painful cries became strained gasping, grunts and groans.

As Ted battled to raise his head, seeking to somehow see his tormentor, he could feel it clutching, tearing at his hair. Finally, twisting and tossing his head violently, trying to unseat his murderer's weight from his shoulders, Ted's terrified eyes glimpsed a horrifying sight. Lightning flashed, and for just the briefest moment, illuminated a face so white it appeared hideously ghostlike. Two gleaming yellow orbs for eyes, like glowing egg yolks, were separated by a bulbous red nose and suspended above a huge monstrously grinning mouth, framed by blood-red, cruelly curled lips.

An insanely gaping mouth, grinning maniacally at him through the darkness! With teeth… _Oh, God!! Ohmigod!_

Flashing those malevolent teeth…! Those huge, razor-sharp, dagger-shaped, vilely yellowed teeth! In that mere instant, Ted was struck dumb, his terrified dying eyes and brain unable to comprehend such a loathsome creature! Ted hysterically renewed his attempts to scream and squirm in a last ditch effort of survival, feeling his fading mind edging toward madness.

As quickly as it had entered his sight, it disappeared!

"Oh, Teddy…! All this wiggling and noise has got to stop! Now!"

With that, Ted felt the tip of the knife come into contact with the vertebrae between his shoulder blades. In one lunatic, measured shove the blade drove home, deeply enough to paralyze him, but not deeply enough to kill.

Unable to move, lying pathetically on the cold Italian marble, watching the black pool of his blood continue to grow as his life ebbed away, Ted closed his dimming eyes, praying for the end to hasten.

"You should have listened better to your clients, Teddy," it growled.

Suddenly, something yanked his rain-drenched hair, viciously forcing his head to rotate to the left. Icy cold fingers latched roughly onto his throat and damp forehead, clamping his head in an inescapable, viselike grip. That face, filled with those terrifying teeth, loomed threateningly near Ted's huge horrified eyes, gnashing loudly several times. Then with a guttural growl it lunged forward, sinking those teeth into the meat and gristle of Ted's exposed left ear! Those teeth chewing, gnawing, tearing at his flesh!

Through the searing hot pain and the gurgling sounds of his own blood bubbling in his ear canal, Ted caught another, even more blood curdling noise… the sound the creature made, deep in its throat, as it gnawed and tore at him.

Those lusty, delighted sounds a man makes as he sinks his teeth into a delicious, perfectly done steak!

They were the last sounds Ted Jennings would ever hear.

Texas Longhorn Steakhouse Oklahoma City 

The hunters were celebrating, enjoying the extra money Dean's pool playing skills had brought their way. Nibbling at several crispy cucumber strips accompanying his massive chef's salad, Sam quietly observed the scene of devastation unfolding on the other side of the dinner table. He watched in amused horror as Dean assaulted a huge twenty-ounce Porterhouse steak. Sam winced as blood trickled from the rare meat with each fresh slice of the steak knife. Judging from the soft, growling, groaning sounds of pleasure Dean was emitting, Sam wouldn't be surprised to see his older brother lick the blood from the plate!


	2. Chapter 2

**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy! **Chapter 2 - Just Another Crappy Day!

Oklahoma City, OK 

Dean studied the check the tiny waitress had just dropped off at their table. He rocked forward in his booth seat and plucked his wallet out of his back jeans pocket. He counted out the requisite amount of cash with a flourish and then hesitated before deciding to throw in a more than generous tip. He laid the money and the check in the little plastic black tray.

Sliding out of the booth, Sam shook his head and muttered, "I don't know how you eat your steak like that."

"Like what?"

"All bloody. Geez, was it even warm?"

"Of course it was," Dean grinned, "Barely."

Sam made a face and rubbed his right hand over his taut stomach.

Seeing the motion, his older brother's grin widened. "What's with you, Sammy boy? It's not like you don't eat steak sometimes."

"Yeah, I do. But I don't care for it if it's still practically mooing."

"Ahh, you just don't know what you're missing then."

The brothers left the Texas Longhorn Steakhouse and ambled across the packed parking lot. Both smoothly slid into their respective places in the Impala, and Dean set the engine to rumbling before looking over at Sam. "So what's next? Find a motel here in the city or should we drive for a while?"

Unaccustomed to his brother seeking his opinion so casually, at least when it came to driving and destinations, Sam looked at him in surprise, and not a little suspicion, before responding. "I dunno. Find a motel here, I guess. I'm still looking for a hunt, and we need to do some laundry anyway."

Truth be told, Dean was tired and had the beginnings of a headache, so acquiescing to Sam's wishes was hardly a burden. He turned right out of the parking lot and went in search of a motel.

After 15 minutes or so of driving around, he finally pulled into the nearly empty lot of the Dorkat Motel. It took only a few moments for Dean to request and pay for a room with two double beds for one night. Returning to the car, he drove around the side of the building and parked in front of Room 33. They grabbed their duffel bags and made their way inside the room.

Taking in the dingy brown walls and pink-and-tan swirled bedspreads, Sam joked, "Another room at Buckingham Palace, I see."

"Ahh, it ain't so bad, Princess Sammy," Dean snickered, "we've stayed in worse. At least this one doesn't have some freaky theme goin' on."

Throwing his duffel on the bed, the youngest Winchester conceded the point before saying, "So should we go get some laundry done first, then research?"

Dean unzipped his own bag and grimaced at the rank odor of blood, sweat, and a few other indefinable things wafting from inside. "Yeah, I guess I . . . we . . . don't have much of a choice." He zipped the bag closed and picked it up.

"Aren't you going to sort them?" asked Sam, as he poked through his own clothes.

"What's the point? Can't tell dirty from clean in there. Might as well just wash it all."

Sam quickly located a nearby Laundromat in the yellow pages and they headed out, deciding to walk since it was just two blocks over. They reached their destination in short order.

The familiar scents of musty steam, detergent, and bleach enveloped them the second they entered the building. The rumble-splash of hardworking washing machines and the whirl of overheated dryers greeted their ears. Neither Winchester actually enjoyed the chore of doing laundry, yet the commonplace scents and sounds were oddly comforting.

Dean claimed an empty washer and began to stuff his clothes inside. He glanced across the aisle to see Sam doing the same, though using a bit more care and caution with his clothes.

"Ah, crap," he muttered.

Sam looked up. "What?"

"I don't have any change. You?"

The younger man shook his head no.

Dean looked around the darkish interior of the Spin-o-Matic. One really grouchy-looking old man slouched in the corner and Dean automatically dismissed him, not feeling up to any sort of confrontation. Spying a 40ish-looking woman sitting by the window reading, he approached her.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

She looked up hesitantly, her wavy, light brown hair falling forward over her glasses, obscuring her line of sight. She brushed it away from her face with a nervous hand and tucked it behind her ears.

Seeing the handsome man smiling earnestly down at her, she couldn't help but offer a shy smile back. "Yes?"

"Do you happen to have change for a $20?"

"Oh! Yeah! I think I do. Hang on." She dropped her book facedown on the counter and fumbled with her large purse, finally extracting her wallet from its hidden depths. The navy blue wallet slipped from her shaky grasp and landed with a soft thud. "Oh, shoot." She felt her cheeks turn red at her clumsiness. Before she could reach down and grab the wayward wallet, the handsome stranger scooped up it up off the floor and kindly handed it to her.

"Sorry." She quickly pulled out a ten and two fives. "Here you go. You can get quarters over there at that machine. Oh, and detergent and dryer sheets too." She pointed to the back wall.

"Thank you!" Dean flashed another smile and winked before spinning on his heel and strolling toward the change machine.

She watched his ass as he walked away, biting her bottom lip hard to keep the wolf whistle safety locked behind her teeth. She reluctantly returned to her book, knowing all the while that the printed words would no longer have any meaning—at least as long as she remained in the Laundromat.

Dean handed Sam a handful of quarters. "C'mon, let's get this over with."

Just over an hour later, the brothers were pulling the last of their now-clean clothing out of the dryer. Dean folded his and stuffed it haphazardly in his bag. Having finished quickly, he waited impatiently for his brother who was taking far too long to fold his and arrange them neatly in his own duffel.

Resting his forearms on an empty washer, he groaned, "C'mon, Suzy Homemaker, can we get going?" His last word ended on a squeak when he felt a firm pat and soft pinch on his butt. Swiveling his head around in astonishment, he saw the woman who'd given him change earlier heading for the door sporting an impish grin. With her hand on the door handle, she glanced over her shoulder at him and offered a seductive wink of her own before sauntering out the door.

Cheeks flushed an interesting shade of pink, Dean cleared his throat and said, "You ready yet, dude?"

Dean stretched out on the bed and dropped his aching head on the pillow. He watched Sam fire up the laptop and drop down into the chair at the small table. The hanging light directly over that table provided the only illumination in the room other than the flickering television set sitting against the wall opposite the two beds. "You need any help over there, geek boy?"

Sam looked up from what he was doing to see his brother digging his palms into his eyes. "You okay, bro?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a headache," Dean replied, then anticipating his sibling's next words continued, "And, yes, I already took something for it."

Pleased, Sam nodded once. "I'm just gonna look for a hunt for a while. You can sleep or watch TV or whatever."

With a sigh, Dean grabbed the remote and started clicking through the channels.

"Hey, Sam, look what's on! They're playing Stephen King's IT," he smirked, "Isn't that one of your favorite movies?"

"Ha ha, very funny." Sam eyes flicked to the TV and then quickly away when he saw the murderous clown filling the screen. "You're not gonna watch it, are you?" he queried with trepidation.

Seeing his brother shift uncomfortably in his chair, the older man smiled and said, "Was thinking about it. A little blood, a little gore—what more can a man ask for?"

Sam grumbled under his breath and then replied, "And you don't think we get enough of that in real life?"

"Spoilsport. Fine, I'll watch something else." Dean breathed an aggrieved sigh, as if he'd had every intention of watching the horror movie that 'creeped' his brother out so badly.

It was quite a while later when Sam suddenly called out, "Hey, Dean!"

Dean was startled out of the doze he didn't realize he'd fallen into.

"Wha…?"

"I think I found something!"

"Yeah?" Dean forced a little more coherency into that word.

"Yep. Listen to this—four people have disappeared, and later turned up dead, drowned in . . . excrement."

The elder hunter made a face. "As disgusting as that is, Sam, what makes you think it's our kind of thing?"

"Because—get this—the four people worked for a place called "SeptiClean". They were each out on a job when they disappeared. Days later their bodies were found, miles away from where they disappeared."

"SeptiClean? So they clean out . . ."

"Septic tanks, port-a-potties, stuff like that."

"So where we headin'?"

"Lampasas, Texas."

"Great. Just great. I can already tell this is gonna be a shitty job."

Rio Rancho, New Mexico Peaceful Acres Cemetery Funeral of the Late Ted Jennings 

Judge Paige Whitsen, dressed in a conservative navy suit and matching pumps, stood looking down at the coffin containing the remains of Ted Jennings. It had been five days since the news buzzed through the courthouse that he'd been found viciously murdered in his own home. She had known the man, an attorney, more professionally than she did personally, but not for lack of trying on his part. She pushed back a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from her elegant chignon.

_Poor bastard. Murdered in cold blood. Guess we always think it can't happen to us._

She let her gaze rest for a moment on the man's ex-wife and young daughters before sliding it over to Frank Cutler, a colleague of Jennings' though always on the other side of the argument. In fact, the last case they'd argued in front of her had been the one involving that idiotic clown, Buttons Scofield. _Oh, what a case that was. _ She noticed that Frank looked a little shaken up, as he stood listening to the minister drone on.

Paige caught his eye and smiled. He peeked at the woman, his wife, standing next to him before carefully smiling back. Raising a hand, he rubbed at the side of his nose with two fingers. Paige dipped her chin slightly in silent acknowledgement. They'd meet at their usual motel room at two o'clock.

The judge breathed a sigh of relief when the minister finished up his laughably, praise-packed eulogy. She wandered away with the rest of the mourners and glided delicately into her silver Mercedes, deciding then and there to skip the reception back at Jennings' ex-wife's house. As she drove away from the cemetery, Paige rubbed the back of her neck and groaned. If she got her way, and she usually did, Frank was going to have to give her a back rub later.

Knowing that she'd be leaving again soon, Paige left her car in the driveway instead of pulling into the garage. Once inside her house, she changed out of her stuffy suit and replaced it with a silky red-flowered sun-dress with matching red high-heeled sandals. She left her hair pulled up in its chignon.

After studying her reflection in the mirror for a few moments and admiring what she saw, Paige checked the clock and decided she had just enough time to relax with a glass of blush wine and have a light lunch—maybe some fresh fruit and brie—before driving across town to meet Frank. Gathering her items, she moved outside to the pool area and sat down at the white patio table.

As she ate, she decided that she'd have to take a swim later after her tryst with Frank. It would be the perfect way to round out the day. Picking up her empty plate and nearly empty wineglass, Paige debated whether or not to indulge in a second glass of wine but decided against it. She was anxious to get to her lover.

Easy Rest Motel Albuquerque, New Mexico 

Paige Whitsen rolled over in bed, pulling the sheet up over her naked, flushed body. She trailed the fingers of her right hand through the hair on Frank's muscled chest. She paused at his belly button and began to trace lazy circles around it. "Oh, you really are a bad boy when you want to be, aren't you, sugar?" She purred.

"Only with you, baby. Only with you."

"Mmmm. Yes, I don't imagine wifey poo would appreciate any of those . . . moves . . . you just showed me." She leaned forward and tongued her lover's nipple.

Frank shivered, muttering, "Don't talk about Molly, okay? Just . . . don't."

"Oh, you're right. Why spoil such a lovely afternoon! After all, I have a few moves of my own."

With a soft giggle, her head disappeared under the blankets and a few moments later, Frank Cutler could do nothing but groan behind gritted teeth.

Dusk was just falling when Paige dropped her throbbing body down into the soft seat of the Mercedes. Resting her head against the headrest for a moment, she relished that well-loved afterglow. Her clandestine time spent with Frank was completely worth the effort. He was a generous, voracious lover, as was she. It made for volatile trysts.

A soft shuffling sound from the back seat interrupted her salacious thoughts.

"What the hell?" She turned her head to look in the backseat but saw nothing in the deepening shadows.

Deciding the noise was simply her imagination; she fastened her seatbelt and started the car with the flick of her wrist. Before she could put the car in gear, however, the shuffle came again, this time accompanied by a whispery, malignant snicker.

"Who's there?" She tried to look behind her again but was impeded by the seatbelt. Paige did, however, catch a glimpse of white out of the corner of her eye.

Without warning, she felt hands grab at her hair, forcing her to face forward. Her eyes searched out the rearview mirror; her breath hitching at what she saw reflected there. A terrified scream worked its way up and out, filling the confined space.

"Eh, eh, eh. None of that." A large, deadly blade was suddenly shoved under her chin, the very tip penetrating the soft tissue.

The scream abruptly died away.

"You know, Judge Whitsen, it's come to my attention that you—you—talk too much. And you're much too opinionated. A bad combination. Wouldn't you agree? I won't like it if you offer anything less than a nod of agreement."

Despite the tip of the knife buried in the soft underside of her chin, Paige nodded, feeling a trickle of blood ooze down her neck.

"Hehe. Nicely done, Judge." The blade was removed, and Paige sighed with relief.

The relief was short-lived, however, as a knife was suddenly driven through the seat and into one shoulder. A second blade penetrated the seat and bit deep into the other shoulder. Despite the god-awful agony, Paige clawed desperately at her seatbelt, trying to undo it. Her shaking hands could find no purchase.

"You talk. And talk. And talk. But you never . . . ever . . . listen. Someone needs to teach you just how to shut up." Razor teeth sank into her jaw, just below her ear.

"You should have learned to listen, Your . . . Honor." A sinister snort followed. "When people talked, you really should have listened. Now… well… now you'll never wag that tongue again."

With that, the large blade returned to the soft tissue under her chin. This time though more than the tip penetrated. The entire length of the wicked blade was shoved with great strength up through her mouth, through her tongue and hard palette. It tore through her sinuses and then deep into her brain.

When the blade was jerked free, copious amounts of blood flowed downward, blending nicely with the red flowers on her sun-dress, eventually obscuring any sign of the white portions of wispy fabric.

On the hunt somewhere in Lampasas, Texas 

"Four days! It's been four days, Sam, and we have nothing to show for it except for two piles of nasty, disgusting, dirty . . . more like _ruined_ . . . clothing!" Snorting in disgust, Dean tied a knot in the black plastic garbage bag containing the various items in question.

Blowing out an exasperated sigh, Sam growled, "Can you please quit bitchin', Dean? It isn't my fault that the spirit of Philip R. Phillips, the founder of SeptiClean, hasn't bothered to show."

"Sam, if he doesn't show today . . . I can't take another day of cleaning out shit."

"Relax. Something tells me it will be today."

Much later, Dean was seriously regretting all his complaints about Phillips' spirit not showing, as yet another big glob of noxious, odiferous, and highly unsanitary goo splattered against his chest and belly. Many had already impacted in numerous places on his body, including his forehead and the side of his neck. The slimy feel and overpowering odor was starting to make him slightly nauseous.

"SAM! Damn it! What the hell are you doing over there?"

The youngest Winchester, knee and elbow deep in his own putrid hell, was digging frantically. Coughing, he called out, "You try digging in this shit for a skull!"

Dean ducked as another dark, gelatinous glob headed his way, cackling when it missed him. Unfortunately, the next one didn't and hit with a semi-liquidy plop on his cheek.

"You're sure it's just his head that was thrown in there, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, his body was found in an old storm shelter on his property. If I could just find his damn sku—" The only remaining piece of Philip R. Phillips came free of the muck with a loud sucking sound. "Got it!"

With a victorious yell, Sam threw the skull on the ground, dousing it generously with salt and lighter fluid. He managed with some difficulty to light a match, having to first wipe his coated hands on the coveralls he wore. Throwing the match on top of the skull, he watched in satisfaction as the flame sputtered and sparked before finally voraciously consuming both fuel and bone.

With a satisfied grunt, Sam turned and sauntered toward his brother, grinning at the other man's discomfiture and appearance. "You were right. This was a shitty job."


	3. Chapter 3

**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy! **_**Chapter 3 -**__ Aversion Therapy?_

Lampasas, Texas 

_**Philip R Phillips' hunt wrap-up**_

"Shit! Friggin' feces-flinging phantom!!" Dean's loud, sputtering voice filled the small tree-enclosed yard where they'd finally laid the spirit to rest. Dean was fuming, his arms angrily outstretched, glaring down at the disastrous, disgusting mess his coveralls had become. As usual, he observed, things had just gotten worse.

In deference to the unseasonably hot weather, Dean had gone about his vile duties on his temporary job with his work-provided coveralls unzipped to the waist. Now… they were unzipped to the waste! _Gross!! Shit! _Gazing down at the thick coating of fecal matter, clinging like glue to his gray t-shirt, he shook his head in complete and utter disgust.

"Damn, Sam! Never again! I swear… You _ever_ find another job like this and you can have Ellen or Bobby dish it out to some other unlucky bastard." Glancing over to where Sam had his lanky frame propped against a tall pine tree, Dean watched with a certain amount of amused satisfaction as Sam strained and struggled, determined to extricate his left calf and foot from one of his knee-high rubber boots. It finally came free with a nasty, sucking, squishing sound. Not a single square inch of Sam's long lower leg or foot had escaped a thorough soaking in septic waste when he'd knelt to find that damned skull. Turning the boot upside down, Sam allowed the thick, brown liquid to pour onto the ground. The other boot followed.

Unable to contain his joy over Sam's discomfort, Dean broke into a hearty laugh. Seeing Sam's instant glare, he choked down his chuckling and grinned broadly at his little brother, who now looked less gleeful over the fun he had poked earlier at Dean's less-than-sanitary appearance.

"Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, Dean! This is sooo not funny!" Sam snapped.

"Oh yeah, Sam. It is. Damn, look at us! We are so going to keep those windows down on the way back to town. Thank God, we didn't bring the Impala!"

The hunters made quick work of suctioning up the mess that had been made of the homeowner's yard, then bundling what few hunting supplies they had brought into a big plastic bag, clambered into the cab of their SeptiClean work truck.

Gasping frantically, they rolled the windows down. The odor was still so overpowering they both found themselves inclining their heads toward the outside of the vehicle.

"Gotta say, Sam, this may be the first time I ever got _shit-faced _without a lot of help from my old buddy, Jack Daniels." Dean snarked.

Even sour-faced Sam broke into a smile at that. "Yeah, Dad was always calling that your smile a 'shitty' grin. Too bad he can't see you now."

They chuckled, continuing to tease one another on the four-mile drive back to the office. It was closed now, since it was nearly 2 pm on a Saturday afternoon. They decided to simply park the truck, toss the keys through the mail slot, and call in their resignations to the answering machine later. Quick. Fast. Painless.

Tumbling from their perches high on the truck seat, the hunters moved through their final duties as SeptiClean employees. After ditching their bag containing Dean's filth-covered Remington and other supplies in the Impala's trunk, Sam stood near the trunk looking puzzled. Running back from dumping the keys in the slot, Dean slammed to a halt as well.

"Shit, Dean, how are we gonna pull this off? Sure can't drag any of this crap in the Impala. We'll NEVER get rid of the smell!"

Dean was already attempting to peel himself out of the offending coveralls only to discover his boots were also containers full of waste fluid. His old torn jeans had soaked up the disgusting stuff to above the knee, despite the protective clothing. Sam found himself in similar condition. His oldest jeans were now destined for the trashcan and his legs, to the knees, and arms, to above the elbow, were covered in the slimy brown liquid.

Both stared at themselves and one another in dismay.

Dean scrunched up his brow for a moment, his green eyes making a quick reconnaissance tour of the surrounding area. Suddenly a grin lit his face, and he pointed toward the street.

"C'mon, Sam. Think we just found an outdoor shower," with that he was bare-footing it quickly out of the parking lot. Sam struggled to kick out of the last leg of his own coveralls, and bounded after his fast-moving brother.

About a hundred feet down, across the road from the office lot was a boy, about fourteen or so, giving a large, playful black Labrador a bath in a three-foot metal tub. The boy looked up, dropping the hose as the hunters entered his yard, and as they drew closer, struggled to his feet, trying to back away. Taking advantage of the boy no longer holding his red collar, the big black dog ran playfully at the hunters, but halted his approach as the septic stench wafted towards his sensitive canine nose. The dog dropped to the ground, rolling his wet fur in the grass, rubbing frantically at his poor snout, trying to dispel the offensive smell.

"Don't come any closer! My dog bites!" the teen snapped, prompting chuckles from the strangers. But as the brothers drew closer, the kid broke into a derisive grin. "Man, you two are walking proof of that saying, huh?"

Dean decided to bite the bullet because they needed this kid's help, fast. "Oh yeah, kid? What saying is that?" Dean winced guessing what was coming next.

"SHIT HAPPENS!!" The pimple-faced teenager doubled over guffawing at his own brilliant wit. "Guess you guys really immerse yourselves in your work, huh?"

Sam and Dean chuckled despite their discomfort. Dean, finding the kid to actually be rather funny, stepped closer wearing his best disarming smile.

"Yeah, kid, that's us... Just really throw ourselves into our jobs, real gung-ho guys. Look, we need to borrow your garden hose and tub for a bit." Dean stated.

"Well… I guess it might be okay. My folks aren't home yet. Hope they don't get mad about wasting water though." Grinning slyly, the boy held out a hand in anticipation.

Dean wormed his fingers deep into his wet pocket and tugged out a soggy ten-dollar bill, handing it over to the smiling kid.

"Awww! Shit! This money is nasty!" The look had changed to disgust as the teen held the bill between thumb and forefinger.

"Go wash it in the kitchen sink, kid. We all know it won't stay in your pocket long enough to leave a stink." Dean snatched up the dribbling hose and cranked it up to full flow as the boy headed for the front door.

Dean, as always, moved his little brother to the head of the line. Rinsing Sam off first, making Sam stand in the soapy tub Dean insisted on using some of the green flea and tick shampoo to get Sam's arms and feet back to near normal. "Sammy, quit your bitchin' and squirming around! Maybe I need to stick a collar on you so you hold still! That motel is none too clean, might be glad we used a flea repellant."

Using the dog shampoo, even on his own hair, Dean groused about the damage to his spiked mop, grumbling about the feel and the drying effects of the chemicals on his skin and hair. Nearly done, the hunters gave one another the once over to spot any errant globs of the vile goop. When satisfied, Dean shut off the water. Just as they were about to return to the car, Dean was suddenly attacked without warning! Knocked completely off balance, he toppled backward landing ass first in the metal washtub.

"Hey! Owww! My back! Ahh, my knees!" he floundered, his arms pin-wheeling helplessly, attempting to fight off the massive beast. The huge black Lab was on top of him the moment his body landed, front feet straddling Dean's chest. The dog proceeded to slobber on every inch of Dean's face, neck and ears, its huge pink tongue whipping uncontrollably across the hunter's exposed skin. Finally, able to turn his face out of the line of fire, he spat out, "Sam! A little help here, huh? Asking too much?"

Sam was sitting where he had fallen on the wet grass, laughing like a fool. He wondered if it would matter to the big mutt that Dean had never really liked dogs. Obviously, the animal either had lousy taste in humans or knew something Sam didn't. Sam struggled to stand on the slippery, wet, soapy grass and offered one long-fingered hand to Dean as a lifeline.

Again on his feet, Dean used the garden hose to mist away the 'doggie drool'. Grabbing Sam's arm they spun back towards the road and raced back to the Impala, the big Lab running happily to the edge of the yard with the hunters. Dean halted a few seconds to pat the top of the dog's head, "What the hell was that, pooch? Did I miss a spot? Think I passed the 'taste test'?" He grinned as the Lab barked sharply in apparent agreement.

Reaching their big black beast, Dean paused a moment. "Think we can find a route back to the motel without too much traffic, Sammy?"

"Sure, if you don't cause any accidents ogling some girl. Or drive so fast we get pulled over, why?" He looked across the wide black roof to see Dean stripping down to only his wet, clinging boxers.

"Aw, Dean! No way! We can't do…" Sam stopped mid-sentence, deferring diplomatically to the dark glare Dean tossed his way, the one that always warned against any transgressions involving Dean's beloved Impala. Sighing loudly, Sam dragged off his wet, ruined jeans and tank top. Emptying his pockets, Sam handed his clothing to Dean. He watched with an amused smile, as his brother sauntered to the dumpster to dispose of the nasty clothes. Only Dean could pull off strutting around in his boxers as if nothing was amiss. Sam always loved that air of confidence surrounding his older brother. Exchanging silly grins, the hunters slid damply onto the bench seat and slammed their doors in unison.

Flying under everybody's radar was actually accomplished rather easily, with both driver and passenger slouched down fairly low in his seat. Both men's heads were filled with anticipation of long, hot showers and fresh clean-smelling clothes. Listening to a local rock station with the volume lower than usual, the tired hunters arrived at their night's lodgings.

Pulling smoothly into the far end of the motel parking lot, Dean breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of pedestrian traffic as he slid into a spot three doors down from their room. Usual Winchester luck would have guaranteed they'd find the housekeeper diligently at work in their room or maintenance working outside of it, but today at least, one thing was going right!

"Just leave the Remington and other stuff 'til later, Sam. Right now we just need to get some nice, hot, soapy showers. Thank God, we bought all the body wash and shower stuff yesterday!" Giving the parking lot one more searching look, Dean cautiously slipped out of his door as Sam followed suit. Closing their doors with nearly no attention attracting noise, they stepped onto the wide sidewalk.

"Damn, Sam. That was almost too easy." Dean broke into a relieved grin, "As umpires like to say… Safe!"

No sooner had Sam joined in that smile than the room door next to theirs swung wide open, and out shuffled two tottering, elderly ladies in brightly colored Muumuus and sunbonnets looking like an oddly matched salt and pepper set. One was tall and thin, the other short and rather wide.

Stopping dead in their tracks, the boys' eyes flashed to one another in momentary panic, both faces flushed with embarrassment. Not so, the little old ladies, who stood their ground, quietly assessing the two handsome young men standing on the walkway, wearing nothing more than damp boxers and beautiful flustered smiles.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." The short, white-haired, eightyish lady exclaimed brightly, a glimmer of a smirk gracing her wrinkled face.

Coughing to clear his tight throat, Dean spoke, surprised to hear his usually confident voice sounding more like a kid with puberty problems. "Good afternoon, ladies. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Sam, attempting to diffuse things further, stammered, "So nice we uh… uh… decided to do laundry."

"No need to rush on our account, boys. You're not in our way." The ladies, by now, were sporting blatant grins. How could anyone _not _appreciate such a lovely bit of scenery? _My, my, such handsome faces to accompany all those lovely muscles! Mmmm, mmmm!!_

With a sighing whoosh of relief, Dean had made it to the door and fumbled the key into the lock. Seizing Sam's wrist he dragged him inside and with a shy smile at the ladies, closed the door. Through their open room window the hunters heard something that returned the grins to both their handsome faces.

"Mildred, why do they call those 'washboard' abs? I don't remember any washboard ever looking that good!" A chuckle escaped Dorothy, as she continued, "Weren't they lovely young men?"

More girlish giggling followed by a joint, " Ohhhh, yesss…they certainly were!"

"Dorothy, I've said it before and I'll say it again… When I'm too old to appreciate beefcake that looks that good, nail my coffin shut and toss it in the hole!"

With that they laughed quite salaciously as they proceeded on their merry way.

Sam and Dean had by then collapsed onto their beds with an uncontrollable case of the giggles.

Forty minutes later, Dean stepped from the steamy shower, using his hand to squeegee away the water trickling down his tight-muscled torso. Stepping to the mirror, he checked one final time for any surviving sign of Philip R. Phillips' idea of artwork. Toweling his hair slightly, he wrapped his towel around his narrow hips and headed for the stack of clean clothes on his bed. Funny, how exposure to the gross world of fecal collection could give a person a whole new appreciation for the scent of soap and fresh laundry. Sniffing appreciatively at his fresh t-shirt he touch to his face, he smiled happily.

"You know, Sam, maybe that Snuggle fabric softener bear isn't such a monster after all… I might have been too hard on the little guy." Hearing Sam chuckle, Dean wiggled his way into the fresh-smelling shirt.

Sam sat at the table, searching for a hunt on his laptop. As his brother finished dragging on the rest of his fresh duds, Sam pushed up from his chair anxiously. "Now that we've cleared some of that smell out of our heads, can we please have some dinner? I'm starving!"

"Damn, Sam. Those little old ladies come back and help you work up an appetite?" Seeing Sam blush, Dean relented. "Yeah, of course. A starving Sasquatch could be mighty dangerous. Let's go, but hey, first lemme run into that resale shop for some new jeans and shirts. Just take a couple of minutes."

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnns

Leaving Sam in the parked Impala, with the motor running, Dean pushed out of the car and loped across the road into the economical re-sale shop they'd found a few days earlier. Dashing back to the men's department, he snatched three pair of jeans in each of their sizes and snagged a small collection of t-shirts from the Super Sale rack. Standing in the short checkout line, he tried not to meet the gaze of the appreciative older women, ogling this lone male in their midst. As he kept his eyes occupied elsewhere, he gasped at the sight contained within a glass display case.

_Ohmigod! How friggin' perfect are those? Can't believe I missed those the other day! Heheheh! Nah! Sam was with me, couldn't have gotten them then, anyway... Gotta have 'em! Shit! What a find! Hehehe!!_

Happily bouncing on the balls of his feet, Dean antsed around in line, anxious to get his latest acquisition in the never-ending prank war the brothers had been waging since grade school. Reaching the cashier, he blurted out his request for the two large lapel buttons he'd spotted in the display. As she laid them on the counter for his final approval, he winked broadly at the meek little clerk, "Oh, yeah! That's a definite sale. Just add those to my bill, please!"

Chuckling rather dementedly, Dean shoved the cheery striped buttons deep into his pocket. Paying the twenty-six dollar bill the clerk presented, Dean left the shop with a huge grin, leaving in his wake a group of puzzled admirers. "Doesn't take much to make some men happy, huh?" mumbled one.

"Think we'd all like a chance to make something like him happy," muttered a voice further back in line. That comment was met with chorus of agreement.

Crossing the street, Dean 'checked' his grin at the car door. No reason to tip his hand to the starving Sam. He'd find the perfect moment later in the day, he was sure of it. Tossing the bag of clothes into Sam's lap, Dean steered the big car back into traffic as they headed for the little 1940's style diner they had so enjoyed the past several days.

Good food and good prices were apparently quite popular in this town, judging by the crowded parking lot even in late afternoon on a Saturday. Seeing this diner was like a step back through time, the long quasi-railcar styling with all the chrome and cheery red trim was a beacon to passersby. The interior was long and rather narrow but equally cheery. Passing under that little entryway sign 'Growling Stomachs Always Welcome', the hunters were greeted by the matronly waitress who had served them at previous meals.

Madge grabbed a couple of menus and happily motioned for Sam and Dean to follow her as her ample hips led them down the narrow aisle. Glancing over her shoulder, merry blue eyes twinkling, she smiled, "Back corner again, right, boys?"

"Yes, ma'am" came in perfect unison.

Seating themselves in the rear booth near the washrooms, the hunters shed their light jackets, nestling them together on the booth's upper ledge. Madge took their orders when she brought back their coffee, and the boys settled into some tired banter as they waited for their 'Railroad Specials' to arrive. When the massive plates came, filled past capacity with homemade meatloaf, chunky mashed potatoes, peas and biscuits all drowning in thick brown gravy, all jaw motion went into devouring their hearty meal. No time to waste on words!

Returning with more coffee several times Madge stood smiling down at them with motherly pride. "Six meals here and every time big appetites… How do you boys stay in shape? Of course, maybe the girls just give you lots of exercise, hmm?" With a mischievous grin their waitress laid down their bill and left them to enjoy their last cup of coffee.

Sam pushed out of his seat. "Think I'll use the restroom before we leave." With Dean's nod, Sam disappeared.

A grin spread over Dean's handsome features as he quickly seized Sam's jacket and dug a pin out of his pocket. Deciding on the two-inch wide red and white striped one he locked it in place on the right breast pocket. "Gotcha, Sammy!" he snickered.

When Sam returned, Dean was standing in the aisle, jacket on and the bill already settled. He was holding up Sam's coat so he could slide into the sleeves. Sam looked at Dean a bit suspiciously at such an assist, but shrugged it off as Dean's desire to get moving.

As they moved toward the door with Dean in the lead, raucous laughter erupted up ahead. Dean suddenly felt Sam's long fingers clutching at his jacket sleeve and sensed Sam shifting closer to the counter area. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean caught the terrified look on Sam's face as he stared to their right. Swiveling his own eyes in that direction, Dean saw the reason for Sam's distress.

Sitting not so quietly at a window booth, three men were eating and having a noisy discussion. Three men in full clown regalia! Colored wigs! Greasepaint! Full clown costumes!

_Aw, shit! This is not what I needed today! _Dean turned towards Sam to reassure him, just in time to see Sam's panicked flailing elbow strike the shoulder of a burly counter customer. The guy was on his feet in a second… ready to rumble. The behemoth shoved Sam, hard.

Seeing the look of terror Sam was still directing toward the clown gathering, the beefy bastard quickly guessed Sam's problem, sneering, "What the hell's your problem, kid? Scared of the_ little clownies?" _

The huge bully snared a handful of Sam's jacket and with a sudden push had Sam jammed face first onto the costumed men's table. In a flash, Dean's fist connected with the guy's big nose, which broke on impact, sending the bloody guy cringing toward the restroom. Dean called after his disappearing butt, "It's called Coulrophobia, dummy! Lots of people have it!"

Immediately Dean was helping Sam off the table and as Sam backed away still in 'panic mode' one of the clowns jumped to his feet and grabbed at Sam's jacket pocket, yanking the pin free.

Holding it out for the others to see, he spun to Sam, his supposed funny clown make-up menacingly distorted, twisted in snarling rage, "What the fuck is this, kid?! Is this your smartass idea of humor? Huh?!" Moving in really close to Sam, he demanded threateningly, "Well, is it?"

"It's not mine! I don't even know what it says…" Sam was trembling, stuttering.

"Let me enlighten you then… CAN'T SLEEP…. CLOWNS WILL EAT ME! That supposed to be funny, you piece of shit?"

Wedging himself between Sam and the wrath-filled 'funny man', Dean pushed Sam free of the tangle and angrily fisted his hand in the man's baggy costume. By then Sam was being hustled frantically toward the door by Madge, and Dean was in full hunter confrontational mode as he viciously shoved the pissed-off clown back into his seat.

"If some asshole like you hadn't scared him when he was a kid, maybe he'd like your sorry asses. Seeing your nasty behavior here, Bozo, he may be right to be scared. You're so not funny." Plucking the lapel pin from the man's hand, Dean sneered, "Guess you guys aren't anything special. Sure wouldn't want you around my kids." With that, he was gone, slipping sweet Madge an extra five-dollar bill for her kindness.

Dean caught Sam's elbow as he exited the building and guided the dazed hunter into the Impala. They drove back to the motel in total silence. Parking the car, Dean headed quickly toward their room only to have to wait as a sullen Sam took his own sweet time joining him.

At the room door, Sam finally broke his moody silence. "You too, huh, Brutus?" Sam muttered in a hurt tone, as he dragged the room key from his pocket.

"What?!"

"It's what Caesar said when his friend, Brutus, joined the guys who were stabbing Caesar to death on the Ides of March," Sam spoke as if instructing an English class.

"Hmmm, dunno, never saw that movie… Anyway, what's that supposed to mean?" Dean raised an eyebrow as punctuation.

"Nothing, Dean. You and that stupid button… It's just that bastard in the restaurant was bad enough… without you rubbing salt in an open wound."

"Gotta admit, Sam, we sure have enough salt for that!" Dean grinned devilishly, as he moved to the kitchenette table and turned on the laptop.

"That button is so _not_ funny, Dean. And by the way… since when do you know the name of my phobia?!"

"Actually, Sam, it is funny. If the clowns hadn't been there, you would have laughed." Seeing Sam's determined scowl, Dean forged ahead with his idea of humor, hoping to lighten the dark mood clouding his sibling's face. Pointing excitedly at the laptop screen, Dean continued, "Really, Sammy, I found some stuff on here one night that might help you with the clown thingy. Coulrophobia, it's called." Frowning at Sam's disbelieving look, he hastened to add, "I do check out something other than porn… sometimes."

Sam sighed in exasperation, simply too tired to put up a fight. Dropping resignedly onto the edge of his mattress, he leaned forward elbows on his knees, chin propped on his long, steepled fingers. Loosing a deep sigh, he focused his blue-green eyes on the brother about to heap more coals upon the already smoldering anger Sam felt over everyone witnessing his weakness.

For the life of him, Sam had no recollection of how this irrational fear had ever really started. Whatever had happened had predated grade school even, because Sam clearly remembered kindergarten and becoming violently ill on Circus Day, knowing real clowns were coming to visit his classroom. He had always believed that if he could remember what had originally sparked his fear, he might somehow find a way to eliminate it. Dean had teased him for years about it, good-naturedly of course, but the teasing always made Sam feel like a child stuck in a giant's body.

_How can I face werewolves, vampires, violent ghosts, even_ _demon-spawn from Hell with little or no fear and then stand frozen in the path of a grinning clown! What the hell is wrong with me…? Shit! Why can't I get past this!_

Exhaling through his open straight-lipped mouth, he surrendered to Dean's idea of merriment at his little brother's chagrined expense. "All right, Dean. Get it over with…"

"Seriously, Sam… I put 'Clown Fear' on Google and found this great site. Actually belongs to some psych group that's certified by some American Board of something or other…" Dean frowned deeply, moving his face within an inch of the screen. "Nope. Sorry, can't make it out without a magnifier. Anyway, let me read you some of this. It's serious stuff, Sam."

Dean made a feeble attempt to hide the sheer mirth glimmering in his bottle-green eyes, trying not to let Sam see the turned up corners of his mischievous smile as he launched into a theatrical reading of the online infomercial. In his mind, Dean could hear the voice of _Dennis Haysbert_ delivering the printed words as if it was life-changing, earth-shattering news, like a 3 a.m. television infomercial urging the viewer to respond within the next thirty minutes.

"So here goes…_ Defined as 'a persistent, abnormal, and unwarranted fear of clowns' each year this surprisingly common phobia causes countless people needless distress. _See that, Sam, says lots of people have it. Bet you didn't know that! Anyway… _To add insult to an already distressing condition, most clown fear therapies take months or even years and sometimes require the patient to be exposed repeatedly to clowns." _Pausing momentarily, Dean pondered, "That doesn't sound like a very good thing, does it, Sam?" before continuing, "_Our therapy believes that not only is this unnecessary, but it often worsens the condition. We believe this is particularly cruel, since clown fear can actually be eliminated, with the right methods, and just 24 hours of commitment by the phobic person…. _Sam, they're not meaning committing YOU here, right?"

Dean's pretense at a look of feigned innocence was the last straw for Sam, as he threw himself backwards onto the bed's surface, closing his eyes against the vision of Dean's enjoyment at twisting the knife, as he read deeper into the psychobabble before him. _Shit!_ _Let Dean have his fun at my expense… Fine. Payback's a real bitch! I'll get back at 'im. Just you wait!_

"_Known by a number of names - Coulrophobia and Fear of Clowns being most common – the problem significantly impacts the quality of one's life, causing severe panic attacks, keeping people apart from loved ones and business associates. Typical symptoms include: shortness of breath, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, sweating, nausea, and overall feelings of dread. Since everyone experiences clown fear in their own way, symptoms vary…. _Then, Sammy, they talk about drugs not helping because you might develop a drug problem and then you'd have TWO worries. They say that their cure is drug-free."

Clearing his throat more loudly than necessary, Dean paused for dramatic effect. "_If you are living with the dreadful burden of clown fear, what is the real cost to your health, your career or school, and to your family or love life? Avoiding the issue indefinitely means resigning yourself to living in fear, missing out on priceless life experiences big and small, living a life that is just a shadow of what it will be when the problem is eradicated... _Sam, how come you never told me? I never knew how bad it could be… You should have said something!"

Glancing at Sam's silent, inert form lying with his long giraffe legs dragging over the mattress's edge, Dean knew he wasn't sleeping. Every so often one of Sam's legs flexed ever so slightly or a foot twitched as he endured Dean's dramatic rendering of the site's sales pitch. Oh, Dean so enjoyed a snicker at his resident giant's expense.

"_For anyone earning a living, the financial toll of this phobia is incalculable… _See there, Sammy, you should probably be damned glad we don't have normal jobs! So, back to the clinic's words… Oh, now this part is scary even with _OUR_ chosen profession…! _Living with this horrendous fear means you can never concentrate fully or give your best. Lost opportunities. Poor job performance or grades. Promotions pass you by. Clown Fear will likely cost you tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of your lifetime, let alone the cost to your health and quality of life, even your love life may be affected. Now, thanks to our NEW program, Clown Fear can be cured and gone forever for less than the price of a round-trip airline ticket."_

Hearing Sam's breathing shifting into a much deeper, audible mode, Dean knew he'd better wrap up quickly; the proverbial pushed envelope was nearing its travel limitations. Preparing to conclude his 'humorous' reading, Dean dug the balls of his feet into the worn carpet ready to sprint from his sitting duck position the moment Sam gained his feet in search of retaliation.

"_At some point in your past, was an event linking clowns and emotional trauma. This condition can be aggravated by many benign events such as movies or TV. Attaching emotions to situations is a primary way we learn and sometimes we just get our wiring wrong. We don't use hypnosis but our methods are just as relaxing and enjoyable once the unconscious mind feels safe and learns to connect different, positive feelings to whatever triggers your phobia. You will be cured. The results are permanent. Clown Fear is gone. Forever." _With that Dean snapped the laptop closed and placing his palms on the table to assist in his escape, said, "So, whadaya think, Sam? Ready to try the cure? Want me to fill in the 'send more info' section?"

As fast as Dean's hunter's reflexes were, he could do nothing to escape the bed pillow that flew with alarming speed to connect with his smirking face.

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	4. Chapter 4

**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy! **_**Chapter 4 Anatomy Lessons**_

_**Rio Rancho, New Mexico**_

Frank Cutler sat in his favorite oxblood chair in his study and stared broodingly into the amber liquid swirling in the bottom of the cut-crystal tumbler in his shaky hand. Throwing the glass to his lips, he downed the remaining Scotch in one swallow. It wasn't his first, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be his last. He'd even given up putting ice in the glass long ago.

_Paige is dead. My beautiful, wild, sexy Paige is dead—murdered!_

He shook his head, as if to deny what he knew to be horribly true. His lover had been brutally killed in her car outside the motel where they routinely conducted their little tryst. Now, mixed in with his overwhelming grief over Paige was a tiny frisson of fear. Two people he knew had been brutally murdered in the last two weeks. It was unnerving to say the least. The courthouse—hell, the whole legal community here in Rio Rancho—was in an uproar. His phone at work hadn't stopped ringing since they'd all gotten the word.

Reaching out, he snatched the bottle of Crown Royal off his desk, and poured himself another generous dose of blessed relief. Before taking his first sip though, Frank stood and lurched his way out of the room and down the hall to the small, elegantly appointed, bathroom. While relieving his bladder of this round of liquid comfort, he stared at the flocked, golden wallpaper and crystal that made up the majority of the room's décor and thought of his wife, Molly. Mousy Molly, whose old family money paid for not only this décor and this room, but in fact, the entire luxury apartment in which they lived. He made good money—very good money—but not quite enough to fund this kind of lifestyle.

_I loved her once, I think. Long ago... Before that damned maternal instinct clock started ticking and then exploded. Back before I met Paige._

Frank's eyes welled with tears as he again thought of his lover. Her funeral was tomorrow, and he somehow had to work up the courage to attend—had to work up the wherewithal to pretend they were mere colleagues and nothing more. The grief-stricken attorney zipped up and haphazardly washed his hands, eager to get back to his Crown Royal.

He had just settled back into his chair and picked up his glass when he heard the front door open. There was a small scraping sound and a soft bump. The jingle of keys dropping into the blue and silver hued Cloisonné bowl, sitting in the middle of the cherry accent table by the door, followed.

"Frank, honey, I'm home!"

Cringing at the sound of her melodic, yet too soft, voice, Cutler chose to sip at his whiskey rather than answer.

His silence proved ineffectual as Molly found him no more than a minute later. He watched with hooded eyes as his wife, clad in pearly pink, glided into the room, her slim hips swaying from side-to-side. Frank surprisingly felt a long-forgotten, inexplicable jolt of lust for his wife.

She bent and kissed his stubble-roughened cheek. Her dark pageboy brushed lightly along with the kiss.

"I'm so happy! There was a big box waiting at the door. I think it's the new item I bought for the nursery! I can't wait to see how it looks."

When her husband didn't answer, Molly continued, "Frank?"

"What?"

"Honey, you're drinking . . . again."

"So?"

"So? I don't understand. What's wrong?" 

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Frank. I know something is wrong. You've been drinking for four days straight!"

"Has nothing to do with you," he mumbled.

"Then what? I know you've been upset because of those terrible murders. Everyone has. It's all anyone can talk about. But I have never seen you like this before."

Frank poured himself another glass of Scotch. He knew he was treading dangerous ground, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"You weren't this upset when you got the news of Ted Jennings' death." She watched as her husband shrugged his broad shoulders.

"You've only been like this since we heard about that judge—Paige somebody or other."

When Frank's eyes welled with tears, something suddenly clicked in both her head and her heart and she gasped.

"Oh my God. You . . . you were h-h-having an affair with her, weren't you?"

He closed his eyes and swallowed.

Molly's hand flew to her mouth. "No, no, no. You said . . . you said it would never happen again. You promised!"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry! You're sorry?" Molly's voice trembled as her rage grew, "You bastard! Having an affair when we've been trying so hard to have a baby! How . . . how could you?!"

For the first time since she'd entered the room, Frank looked directly at his wife.

"There is no more 'trying to have a baby', Molly! Damn it, there hasn't been for a long time. We _tried_. And _tried_. And _tried_ some more. You heard what the doctors said. It is never, ever, gonna happen. Give it up already."

A resounding crack filled the room as her open palm connected smartly with his cheek, reddening it instantly.

He didn't let that stop him however. "No matter how much you decorate that nursery, no matter how much you stuff in there, you'll have to accept the fact that there is never going to be a baby. Molly, you can't get pregnant."

Molly said nothing more; the scalding tears running down her cheeks telling their own story. She spun on her heel and marched from the room.

Frank slumped back in his chair, swirling the remaining scotch in his glass. Lost in thought, he had no idea how much time had passed when he again sensed Molly's presence in the room. Frank looked up to see her standing in the doorway, suitcase in hand.

"I'm going to stay with my parents for a few days. I want you to pack your stuff and get out. I mean it—really mean it—this time. Don't . . . do not be here when I get back." She turned and walked away.

Frank barely flinched when he heard the slamming of the front door. Instead, he concentrated on the fact that he'd need a new bottle of Crown Royal soon.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

_**Dorkat Motel**_

_**Lampasas, Texas**_

The pillow missile smacked Dean full on in the face before falling soundlessly to the floor. A split second later, the pillow from _his_ bed followed the first. He opened his eyes to see his very agitated younger brother closing in on him.

"You. Are. Not. Funny." Sam stood toe-to-toe with Dean, doing his level best to look intimidating. "Just wait—one of these days when you least expect it, I'm gonna get you back."

Dean had forgotten how Sam could loom over him when he was angry. "Now just hold on there, Fragile Flossie, I was just trying—"

"You were what—wait a minute—did you just call me Fragile Flossie?" Sam's mouth involuntarily twitched with the beginnings of a chuckle. "Dude, where the hell do you come up with these things?"

Dean chuckled and shrugged at the same time. "I dunno. I'm gifted."

Sam snorted. "Gifted? C'mon—Fragile Flossie? You make me sound like a cow or something." The tension in the room dissolved in a blink as the younger Winchester began to laugh. It was apparently contagious because in seconds Dean, too, joined in the merriment.

After a few raucous minutes, Sam finally managed to bring himself under control, practically gasping for air after laughing so hard. He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "I . . . I'm still going to get you back, you know," he said with a smile still firmly in place, "and just think, I have TWO phobias to work with—aviophobia and muriphobia."

"Huh?" Dean gave his brother a carefully blank stare.

"Fear of flying and fear of rats."

"Dude, I do not do phobias. THOSE are NOT phobias!"

"Oh, they're not, huh?"

"No. I just have a healthy . . . aversion . . . to those things."

"Uh huh—whatever you say, bro. Whatever you say." Sam sank down onto the chair recently vacated by his older brother, his eyes catching sight of the computer screen. He looked over at Dean. "How the hell did I end up scared of clowns anyway? Do you have any idea?"

"Nope, not a clue."

The young hunter thought he saw something—the tiniest spark of knowledge—flare in his brother's green eyes, yet it was extinguished too quickly to be sure if it was anything more than his imagination.

"So, Sammy—"

"It's Sam."

Dean heaved a long-suffering sigh. "So, _Sam_, what's on the agenda for the rest of the night? It's too early to hit the bar…" Dean snapped his fingers. "I know! We could check to see if there's a circus in town. Or a carnival… You know, start your therapy right now."

With a growl, Sam started to rise from the chair.

"All right. All right!" Dean, smirking, held up his hands in surrender, "I'll stop! It's just that you make it so damn easy!" Tapping his foot, he muttered, "So what are we doing tonight?"

"I dunno. I plan on checking some things out on the internet." Sam looked his brother up and down, before wrinkling his nose. "But maybe you could take another shower 'cause, dude, I think you still reek."

"Hate to break it to you, geek boy, but that's YOU."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Why don't you, like, take a walk or something?"

"A walk?"

"Yeah, a walk. You know, that's where you put one foot in front of the other and propel yourself across an expanse of space."

"Smart ass."

"Pain in the ass."

The elder hunter rubbed the back of his neck. "I suppose I should just bite the bullet and clean those damn guns that are in the trunk."

"Want some help?"

"Nah, I'll do it. Just keep looking for our next hunt. Just make sure that it's not one that involves a freakin' spirit that gets its kicks throwing actual fistfuls of shit at us."

Sam nodded and picked up his laptop off the table, padding softly over to his bed. He was making himself comfortable as Dean snatched up the Impala's keys and stepped out of the motel room.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Rio Rancho, NM **Cutler Apartment**

Frank came awake with a start. The combination of grief and liquor had sent him into a fitful doze right there slouched low in his chair. He straightened and winced at the pull of a stiff neck. Glancing at his Rolex, he noted that it had only been just over an hour since Molly had stormed out.

Realizing his bladder was again painfully full, Cutler stood, pausing to allow his wobbly legs to steady slightly. The short trip out of the study and down the short hall took everything he had in him.

He finished his business and was at the sink washing his hands, staring at his haggard expression in the mirror, when he heard the first noise—a soft scuffing sound. Frank turned off the faucet and cocked his head, waiting for the noise to be repeated. When everything remained silent and still, he grabbed a nearby Egyptian cotton towel to dry his hands and shook his head figuring his recent binge drinking was causing his mind to play tricks on him.

Cutler left the bathroom and turned toward the kitchen, thinking to grab a quick bite to eat before opening a new bottle of Crown Royal. It was then that he heard the scuffing noises again. Here in the hallway, the noise was clearer; it sounded like the pitter-patter of feet—little feet—a child's feet, which was ludicrous. Molly was the one to have delusions like that, not him. Yet, Frank heard them clearly. In fact, they seemed to be coming from the room Molly had designated, and decorated as a nursery, despite her barrenness.

Frank slowly made his way toward that room. He paused with his hand on the door, reluctant to open it. Taking a deep breath, Frank twisted the knob and roughly shoved the door open, flipping the light switch on the wall right inside the door. The attorney poked his head into the room and looked around, shuddering. Frank hated this room and had done so since Molly had begun its transformation from guest room to nursery. Despite his many objections, his wife had decorated the nursery with an abundance of clowns. He despised—and feared—clowns with a passion and had since he was a child. They were absolutely everywhere in this room—cavorting on the white wooden crib, somersaulting on the cheery yellow walls, swinging wildly from the ceiling. Their garishly made up faces were painted with huge, happy grins that looked more like twisted evil leers. His gaze uneasily roamed the creepy room, finding nothing out of place. Though if there was, he'd be the last person to know, because he avoided this room like the plague, and not just because of the clowns.

Deciding he was hearing things—probably due to the amount of alcohol in his system—Frank shook his head and pulled the door closed with a thud. Turning and swaying slightly, he made his way down the hall and into the living room. He wasn't prepared when the toes of his left foot connected with the heavy wooden end table blocking the previously clear path.

"Ouch, God dammit!" Frank instinctively reached for his injured toes while hopping on his right foot. Dizzy from drink and off-balance, he crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut when something hard and fast collided with his leg, taking it out from under him. His breath left his lungs when he impacted with the floor, his head bouncing hard off the polished hardwood.

_What the hell? _Multi-colored dots were swirling in his vision.

A low cackle sounded off to his left. "Frankie, Frankie, Frankie." The hissing mumble barely registered before something landed on his chest further constricting his breath.

"You know—in some circles you're known as the 'silver-tongued bastard'. How unfortunate for you that they were right!"

With no lights on in the living room and the blinds closed over the wide balcony door, Frank couldn't clearly see his attacker. He felt hands pulling at his cheeks then prying at his lips to pull them apart. The attorney fought, tossing his head from side to side and clenching his teeth until a well-placed fist to the eye caused him to gasp. The second he did, a hand darted into his mouth and closed tightly around his tongue.

"Now—well now—" growled his attacker, "I'll call you the 'no-tongued bastard'." With an evilly gleeful chortle, his attacker sliced cleanly through his victim's tongue, severing it. He listened as the Frank's scream was immediately and abruptly reduced to grunts and gurgles.

"And I heard you're wife earlier. Poor, pitiful Molly! Stuck with the likes of you."

Through his haze of agony, Frank felt the weight leave his chest. He almost breathed a sigh of relief until he felt his pants and boxers being cut away. He tried to move, tried to roll away, but his movements were uncoordinated, slow, and sloppy. The weight previously on his chest now settled on his legs.

"Yes, indeed, stuck with the likes of you. I saw you with that pretty little judge, you know. Tsk, tsk. The things you two did with each other. You really are quite the bastard. I think… I think I'll take this Just. Because. I. Can." With that, the killer hacked straight through Frank's privates with the bloodstained, glittering blade, chortling as crimson fluid again gushed. The attacker tossed the severed penis down on the floor where it came to rest beside the attorney's tongue.

As Frank lay lightheaded and hemorrhaging on the floor, he dimly heard the sound of shattering glass. He felt himself being dragged across the floor as he twitched ineffectually trying to get away. When he felt strong winds buffeting against his body and glass shards piercing his skin, he sluggishly realized he was now on the balcony of their high-rise apartment. His attacker tugged and pulled and pushed, inching Frank inexorably forward until he was propped against the twisted iron spindles. Terror coiled like a snake in his gut as he felt unnaturally strong hands finally heave him up and over the decorative iron railing. He hovered there a moment before becoming airborne and plummeting toward the ground—his mouth forming inaudible screams.

"Bye, bye birdie," crowed his killer.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Parking Lot – Dorkat Motel 

Dean sauntered slowly to the trunk of the Impala, feeling his black t-shirt quickly absorbing the heat of the sun's rays. He'd just snugged the key into the lock when he heard a female voice loudly whisper somewhere behind him.

"Dorothy, look, those beautiful boys must have finished their laundry. He's dressed."

"Seems so, Mildred. Too bad! I think I liked it better when all their clothes were dirty. Clothes hide too much of that gorgeousness."

Dorothy's giggle proved the women were wise to the Winchesters' earlier deception. The hunter felt his face flush a little, and he turned slowly to find both elderly women approaching him.

"Hello again, young man," they chorused in unison.

"Uh, hello." A rare bout of politeness kept Dean's feet anchored to the blacktop when all he wanted to do was escape.

The pair stopped directly in front of him.

Dorothy smiled at him. "Mildred and I were talking while we ate, and I . . . we . . . have a question if you don't mind?"

Dean shifted from foot-to-foot. "O-o-okay. I . . . I don't mind, I guess."

"How do you stay so—so—dang it, Mildred, what's that word?"

"Buff," responded Mildred.

"Yes, that's it! We'd like to know—how do you stay so buff?"

Momentarily speechless, Dean just blinked at the two elderly, muumuu-clad women in front of him. "Uh, well, um . . . I dunno. Jogging. And, um, my brother and I practice kick—uh—kickboxing and stuff. We . . . we train a lot for our . . . jobs."

Dorothy cocked her head to the side, her floppy hat tilting dangerously. "Well, you certainly do a good job of it."

"Uh . . . thanks."

Mildred piped up and said, "I'd like to know if I can touch it."

"It? What it?" To his dismay, Dean's voice actually cracked a little as it had the first time he'd run into these two ladies.

"You know, this—what's the proper term?" Mildred touched her chubby upper arm.

"Oh. You mean, bicep."

"YES! Exactly. Your bicep! May I touch it?"

Completely rattled, the older Winchester answered, "Uhh, sure." He jumped a little when he felt Mildred's cool fingers glide lightly over the bulging bicep of his right arm, just below the sleeve of his black t-shirt.

"Why, my goodness, it's so . . . so hard!"

Dean's face reddened even more with embarrassment and his gaze darted, a little desperately, toward the motel room door.

Mildred nodded in satisfaction, and not a little appreciation. "Now then—Dorothy wants to know if she can touch your . . . oh, darn it . . . your . . . whatever this is!" She pointed to her upper chest.

"Pecs," this time there was a definite squeak in Dean's voice.

"Yes, that's it. Pecs. I think Dorothy said she would like to touch your pecs. Right, Dorothy?"

The elderly woman had the grace to look slightly, but only slightly, abashed. "Well, if the young man wouldn't mind?"

Unwilling to hear his own pathetic, squeaky voice again, Dean resorted to just giving the woman a quick nod.

Dorothy's hand immediately shot out and she laid it flat on his upper right chest. She moved her fingers up and down a couple of inches, almost petting him.

"Oh my! Impressive! Quite impressive! And so warm... I bet the other young man's abs are equally so, hmm?" After a few seconds, her hand dropped away somewhat reluctantly.

"Well, Mildred, I guess we should let _this_ young man get back to what he was doing. Don't want to take up all his time with our silliness."

Both women winked—winked!—at him. "Thank you, young man," continued Dorothy, "I do believe you just made our day—maybe even our year."

Mildred nodded like an over-excited bird. "Yes. Yes, indeed."

Dean's mouth worked a few times before he managed to spit out, "Um, you're . . . uh . . . welcome."

The young hunter watched as the two elderly women waved and turned away, hurrying toward their own room. As quickly as possible, he threw the Impala's trunk open, grabbed the bag containing the dirty weapons, and slammed the trunk closed with a silent apology to his baby for the rough treatment. Once the guns were in his possession, he practically ran for the motel room.

Dean burst through the door as if a werewolf was nipping at his heels, causing Sam to jump and look up in surprise. Dean stood spread eagle against the slammed door, a hunted expression on his face.

"Dean? What the hell? Is something wrong?"

"You . . . you wouldn't believe me if I told you, Sam. Seriously. All I'm gonna say is I'm not leaving this motel room the rest of the night. And if you're considering it—you might want to think twice."

"Why? Dean, tell me what's wrong!"

"M-Mildred and Dorothy."

Sam raised an eyebrow and gave his brother a half-smile. "What—did you develop gerantogynephobia in the few minutes you were out there? 'Cause you know, a third phobia would just give me more options for payback."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny," Dean muttered while gathering the supplies he needed to clean the guns they'd used earlier in the day, "Just go back to finding us a hunt, ginormo."

It was a little more than an hour later that Dean was finishing up the cleaning of the guns. The brothers had worked in companionable silence, each lost in their individual tasks.

With a final, almost loving pat, Dean laid the Remington down on the bed. "So anything yet, geek boy?"

Sam looked up from his computer screen with a slight frown creasing the bridge of his nose. He wiped it away with a tired hand. "Ahhh, not much. There's a disappearance up in Shamrock. A couple of odd, unsolved murders in Rio Rancho, New Mexico. Several animal attacks in Littlefield, Oklahoma. Oh, and some strange, eerie lights in Sulphur, Louisiana. But I can't tell if any of it is our kind of thing."

Dean grunted. "Well, pick one of 'em. 'Cause I don't care where we go, but we're leaving in the morning."

(SN) (SN) (SN)

The night passed uneventfully, allowing the brothers to get a decent night's sleep. Bright and early the next morning, the Winchesters found themselves at the diner eager for breakfast before heading out on the road. After the clown incident yesterday, Sam glanced around nervously before sliding into the booth. When their waitress, Carlena, approached, he turned over his cup as well as Dean's and nodded, pointing to both cups when she asked if he wanted coffee. His brother sank into his bench seat just as she was filling his cup with the dark, heady brew.

"Ahh, hot coffee. Ambrosia to the gods," Dean smiled widely at the waitress who appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

"What can I get for you guys this morning?" Carlena asked, pulling out her lined order pad.

After a quick perusal of the menu, Sam ordered blueberry pancakes, sausage, and a tall glass of orange juice while Dean typically went more elaborate and ordered Belgian waffles, two eggs over easy, toast, bacon, and sausage.

While waiting for their breakfast to arrive, Sam sipped at his cream-and-sugar graced coffee and browsed the internet once more, still trying to decide in which direction they should go this morning.

"So, little brother, any idea where we're heading yet? Or do I just make a command decision and drive in whatever random direction I feel like?"

"I dunno, Dean. I guess any one of the . . . Wait a minute! You know one of those possibilities I mentioned last night—the couple of unsolved murders in Rio Rancho, New Mexico?"

"Yeah?"

"It might be our kind of thing after all."

"Why's that?"

Sam swung the laptop toward his brother so he could see the screen. "There's been a third killing."

"So."

"So, it says here that a source close to the investigation says that the only clue the police have are two sets of bloody footprints. Child-size footprints! But there's no way a lone child committed these three brutal murders."

Dean shrugged. "Still not sure that's enough to go on."

"Yeah, but at least it's worth checking out, right? It's not like we have anything else lined up."

The waitress returned then with their food and placed the laden plates down in front of them. She topped off their coffee with a smile and hurried away to take care of other tables.

The elder Winchester grabbed the maple syrup and poured a generous amount over his Belgian waffles. He picked up his fork and shoveled a huge bite of the buttery sweet goodness into his mouth. "Well, I guess we're off to Rio Rancho, New Mexico, then." Dean jutted his chin at Sam's plate. "Eat up, Sammy boy."

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	5. Chapter 5

**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy! **_**Chapter 5 **_ Not a Laughing Matter

**Lampasas, Texas**

Cruising back to the motel the boys were feeling anxious, excited, and curious, typical at the beginning of every new hunt. The adrenaline was beginning to course through their hunters' veins, feeling like an infusion of reinvigorated life. Sam couldn't wait to immerse himself in the research, to find the 'who and the why' of the deaths. Dean was chomping at the bit dying to know what they were up against, how to kill it, and whom they would save.

Sam could taste the excitement permeating the air in the big black car. It was visible in the supercharged looks Dean cast in his direction every few minutes. Hell, after that successful, but highly demeaning 'shitty' salt and burn, even Sam was itching to flex his muscles and take on a hunt that would have decidedly more dignity and excitement to it.

As they approached the motel lot, however, he sensed a change in Dean's positive demeanor. A crease formed along Dean's brow and his lips tightened apprehensively. As he steered the massive Impala into the driveway at the far end of the motel complex, Dean's bottle green eyes darted about, almost fearfully.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam's blue-green eyes joined in the furtive sweep of the landscape.

"Do you see them? Are they out here?" Dean's voice was barely above a whisper.

Confusion twisted Sam's mouth, Dean's agitation causing him to look even more intensely at the buildings, concrete expanses and greenery. He queried, "Who? What?"

"Them! You know… Mildred! Dorothy!" Dean looked almost frightened.

Sam nearly choked on the laughter he was attempting to conceal after hearing the surprising panic in his big brother's answer. Incredulously, he prompted, "Dean, dude, what is it with you and the two old chicks? They're just two harmless old ladies."

"They just look meek and innocent, Sam. Trust me… They're NOT!" Although there were no cars anywhere nearby, Dean pulled up quietly into a parking spot, three spaces down from their own room.

As Sam reached for the door handle, Dean forcefully grabbed his arm. "Sam, for God's sake! Do not slam the door! In fact, leave it hanging open… I'll do the same. Whatever you do, do not make ANY noise! Just get your stuff as quickly and quietly as possible and let's get outta Dodge before the old bats catch on!"

An almost childlike fear radiated from his always strong, always in control brother. Despite the humor Sam saw in the situation, he decided to go easy on Dean this once. His time for getting even for the 'infomercial' and lapel button would come later. "Okay, Dean. Okay. Don't have a stroke! Come on, let's load up."

Dean nearly tiptoed to their door and then stealthily unlocked it, emitting no sounds whatsoever. Sam couldn't remember Dean being this silent even on their most dangerous hunts. Their clothes and personal effects were noiselessly swept into their duffels. Even the guns Dean had cleaned were sneakily slipped into the weapons' bag without a sound. With one final quick sweep of the bathroom and kitchenette, the hunters slipped back out the door, pulling it quietly closed behind them.

Dean and Sam had just piled everything into the backseat to avoid the creaking of the trunk opening when another sound caught their attention. The room door next to theirs swung squeakily open and out stepped the two elderly ladies, large pocketbooks draped over their age-freckled arms. Giving the boys a surprised look, they recovered quickly from their shock and flashed huge, delighted smiles at the two hunters.

"How nice to see you boys again." The mismatched ladies voiced in unison.

Sam smiled and got his mouth into gear first, "Nice to see you ladies. We just got a call… um… on a family emergency or we'd stay and chat. Have to leave, so sorry."

"You poor things... Sorry to hear that, son. Well, you boys, take good care of yourselves now." The ladies smiled flirtatiously. "We actually are leaving in a couple of days ourselves. Off to see the lovely city of Albuquerque on Saturday or Sunday... Always loved that silly name," babbled Mildred.

As their future destination left her lips, Sam heard Dean gasp and choke out loud. Dean glared at Sam in a desperate attempt to get him into the vehicle and on the road. Throwing himself hastily into their big, black beauty, the older hunter slammed the door shut and quickly twisted the key, bringing the massive V-8 motor out of its slumber. Sam quickly slid onto the seat as Dean backed out without allowing Sam time to even shut his door.

"Well, keep up that kickboxing! It sure does wonders, especially you, Dean!" The little brightly garbed ladies stood sadly waving as the big car moved onto the highway.

"Kickboxing? What the hell was that all about, Dean?" Sam looked quizzically at the tense face beside him.

"Nuthin', Sam. Just let it go! Seriously, you don't want to know." Dean snapped.

"I was just asking…" Sam got defensive.

"Well, don't! If you're so damned curious, maybe I should just drop you back off with them and THEY can drive you to Albuquerque…" Dean glared challengingly at his baby brother.

"Oh, hell no! Ten and a half hours with two old ladies… Hell, no! I won't say another word… Promise!" To add emphasis, Sam crossed his heart with his fingers.

"Fine!" snapped a miffed Dean.

"Fine!" Sam huffed, lapsing into a hardheaded verbal shutdown.

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Somewhere on Highway 25 

80 Miles Outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico

Stuffing the sizable remnant of a juicy, oozing burger patty into his mouth, Dean glanced in silent Sam's direction. The silence in the Impala had become positively deafening. Wiping the corner of his mouth on one of the el cheapo napkins provided, Dean tried to give the mood a little nudge.

"They at least make a decent salad, Sam? Damned burger bun was like sawdust." Dean popped his mouth open a couple of times smacking like a landlocked fish gasping for moisture. Not even a glimmer of a smile from Sam. Waiting for an answer that was obviously not forthcoming, Dean's brow furrowed in frustration._ Okay, so you're really pissed… still… again… Oh well, sooner or later you're gonna hafta say something. I can wait 'til hell freezes over if I hafta… Un unh, that's a lie!_

Desperate for a little conversation and sporting an evil grin, Dean snatched Sam's Iced Latte from the cardboard food tray, gulping a huge mouthful to wash down the dry burger bun.

"Hey! Stay away from my drink!" Sam angrily swatted Dean's hand away as he tried to put the cup back. Glaring in Dean's direction, he snapped, "Drink your own…"

"My coffee's too hot! C'mon, Sammy…" Dean pleaded, casting his own version of the puppy dog look at his younger brother, but Sam seemed immune to it.

"Well, that's your own fault! Shoulda' ordered a soda, maybe, huh?" Sam held the sweating drink cup close to his chest, keeping it well out of Dean's reach.

Pursing his lips into a 'pouty' face, Dean grumbled under his breath, "Selfish!"

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Wee Wampum Wigwam Motel 

_Somewhere between Albuquerque and Rio Rancho_

Driving more slowly as they approached a cluster of motels and small businesses, Dean snorted in delight as he spotted the strange but attractive grouping on the right. This motel not only had great rates but a truly different look to it. In a neat row sprawled a series of tepee-shaped buildings made of adobe and painted tan with realistic looking lodge-poles jutting above their tall, pointed tops. How unique! Dean was drawn like a magnet-to-metal into the nearly vacant parking lot.

Leaving the slumbering Sam in the Impala, Dean went in to register in the odd-shaped tiny office. A wizened old man, with skin like tanned leather and wearing a brightly colored bead-trimmed vest and silver braided hair, rose from behind the neatly set-up front desk. Flashing a friendly, toothy smile, he queried, "Staying just for the night? Or a

bit longer? We offer some great weekly rates here at the Wigwam."

"Better than $29.95 a night for a double?! How do you beat that rate? Been years since I found a motel rate that cheap!" Dean marveled with a grin and a disbelieving shake of his head. "But, hey, I'm willing to be tempted… "

"Can offer you a whole week at $150! How's that?" the old man's brown eyes challenged.

"No shit?! Damn, I'd almost feel guilty, if my money weren't so tight! You just got yourself a couple of tenants." Jotting a fictitious name in the register, Dean extended his hand to the old man.

"Welcome to the Wee Wampum Wigwam, Mr… um…" the faded brown eyes searched the signature line, "Mr. Hetfield. I'm Charley Two-Horse."

"So, Charley, why the name…? Look more like tepees, don't they?" Dean queried out of curiosity, as he paid the cash into the leathery palm before him. "Wasn't the greatest student in school, but I seem to remember wigwams being built like Quonset huts."

"Poetic license…" Charley shrugged. "Look at it like an Indian version of the Budget Motel. That name was already taken, so this was as close as I could come." He grinned shrewdly at the hunter.

Dean took an instant liking to the old man, "Yeah, it's certainly a catchy name. Doesn't hurt that the tepees look unique, I'd think."

"Think you'll like the room. Not sure what people expect to find here. Lots of 'em just drive by, like we're lepers. Hmpfff!" the old man grumbled indignantly. "Well, son, their loss is your gain! Sleep well. Fresh coffee and donuts here in the office at 7 a.m." He held out two sets of keys attached to miniature longhorn skulls. "Your room is the last tepee on the left as you leave the office."

Happily snagging the keys, Dean thanked the old man and headed back to the Impala. Parking his black, gleaming monster near the front door of their unit, he reached over to rouse Sam.

"Up and at 'em, Sammy. Wake up so we can hurry up and go to bed." He chuckled, grinning as he watched Sam try to acclimate to his surroundings. Dean waited quietly for his little brother's response to the motel's appearance.

Sam's jaw dropped nearly to his chest, eyes enlarged as he spun towards Dean, "Aw! Shit, Dean! What the hell is this? We fall through a time warp somewhere? This may be a new low even by Winchester standards!" Seeing Dean's obvious delight at his discomfort, he changed his frown to a smile. He refused to play into Dean's attempt to get his goat. Elbowing his car door open, he grabbed several bags from the backseat and with feigned cheerfulness headed for the room door.

Fitting the key in the lock, Dean pushed into the room while Sam flipped on the light switch near the door. One look at the interior left them both speechless. Dean turned to Sam just as Sam spun his head towards his older brother, both mouths gaping.

In perfect unison they voiced their opinions, "Awesome!"

"Shit! This is great!" A wide-eyed, grinning Dean spun in a circle inside the surprisingly spacious unit, taking in all the attractive Southwestern style wood furniture. Beautiful, wooden-post headboards and footboards on each queen-sized bed, a nice hacienda-style dining set with wooden armchairs and not far from a very, new-looking, Indian-blanket-patterned sofa stood a mammoth big-screen TV! Maybe their luck was finally changing!

Sam's only response was a huge shit-eating grin and a walloping clap on the back for his older brother, right before he launched himself at the massive bed furthest from the door like a goofy big kid!

After long, hot showers under a big pulsating showerhead, the boys settled onto the big sofa with a couple of beers in hand to watch a bit of cable before retiring to their comfortable sheets and mattresses. They were eager to get started on their hunt in the morning, though not anxious to leave this wonderful new habitat.

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By 8:30 a.m., Sam had been pouring over his laptop for nearly an hour when Dean finally returned from his early morning jaunt. Laying a plate full of fresh donuts, a couple of Styrofoam cups, a carafe of hot coffee, and several newspapers on the tabletop, a beaming Dean shrugged out of his leather coat, tossing it onto the sofa.

"A whole carafe of coffee and donuts! Hell, Dean! We win the lottery or something?" Sam wore a surprised expression as he poured coffee for both of them.

"Nah, Sammy. Really cool old Indian dude runs this place, he gave us a deal you wouldn't believe!" Raising an eyebrow in Sam's direction, Dean nodded in interest towards the laptop, "Anything newsworthy?"

"Think the preferred name is Native-American, Dean," Sam corrected. Glancing up at the older hunter, Sam drew a brotherly shrug as his only acknowledgement. "Well, tapped into some new stuff… The footprints in question are size 8 kids' shoes, and they were found near at least two of the crime-scenes. Says police questioned the mates, ex-mates and some client involved with all three victims recently. Police are stumped."

Dean snorted derisively, between huge donut chomps, "Stumped? Police? Always. So what else is new?" he shook his head in mock disbelief.

"Pretty much already know the rest of the stuff though, Dean. What did you glean from the locals? Anything useful?"

"Well, I managed to get the last three days' newspapers from some cute, flirty chick at the convenience store down the road." He grinned his usual I'm-such-chick-magnet grin, adding, "But better yet… I got not only the name, but, a lunch interview with the police evidence tech from two of the cases."

Sam arched his eyebrows in pleasant surprise at Dean's fantastic, quick success. "I'm impressed! All that in just under an hour…?"

"Yep, I'm awesome! Turns out she's flirty chick's older sister." Smirking triumphantly, Dean dropped into the cushy comfort of the sofa, coffee in hand. "You can come with… if you want."

Sam grinned, "Oh, yeah, you betcha'. This is a business lunch. Gotta stay the course."

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Three hours later, the hunters pulled into the parking lot of the local Taco Bell. Dean explained the girl had picked the place since it was close to a crime scene she was currently working. Shrugging, Sam exited the car as Dean climbed out and began looking for the girl he'd seen only in a cell phone photo her sister had flashed at him.

Sitting under an umbrella-topped table sat a pert little brunette, sipping a soda, watching the people entering the fast food joint.

Moving across the lot, Dean stepped up to the table and extended his hand, "Hey, Kymber, I'm Dean. Your sister, Kandie, said you wouldn't mind talking with us. This is my brother, Sam. Thanks for meeting with us."

The slim beauty shook both their hands and smiled shyly, "Kandie, sent me a phone shot of you, Dean. It didn't do you justice! Are you guys locals?" she asked with hope in her voice.

"Nope, but definitely staying for a few days," Dean said encouragingly, bringing a huge smile to the young lady's face.

Sam could see where this was going, and moved quickly to bring the conversation back to business. "Lunch is our treat, Kymber. What would you like?"

Pulling a small notepad and pencil from his pocket, Sam jotted down her order and added his taco salad and burrito to the sheet. Turning to Dean, he handed him the top sheet with a mischievous smile. "Thanks, Dean. We'll wait right here for you," dismissing the stunned Dean with a wave of his hand.

As Dean headed off to get their food, Sam slid into a seat near Kymber. He quickly made up a cover story about the brothers being students in an evidence tech program in Texas and said they were really intrigued by the murders involving the judge and the lawyers.

Kymber's big golden-brown eyes brightened at the thought of spending a lunch with not one, but two gorgeous guys, in her own field of expertise. Fumbling her cell phone from her slacks' pocket she flashed a photo of a pretty, 20ish blond in Sam's face. "That's Kandie, Sam. She's really nice and lots of fun. Maybe the four of us could have a drink or dinner one night, hmmm?"

Sam had to admit the sisters were both impressive, but right now the hunters needed their concentration on the hunt. Distractions could definitely be dangerous. He smiled gently, "Yeah, maybe in a couple of days, Kymber. We have a few things to handle first."

As the returning Dean grumpily slid the tray of food onto the table between them, she beamed a radiant smile, saying, "And please… just call me Kym."

Definitely a girl after their own hearts, Kym had no problem discussing the indelicate subject of murder scenes while dining. She revealed quite a bit of information regarding the scenes that was not available for public consumption, including some additional information regarding both the very bloody child-sized footprints and the finding of shredded and torn cardboard boxes in close proximity to both the spot where Frank Cutler had been attacked and where Ted Jennings had been killed.

"So, did the police try to track delivery of the boxes?" Dean mumbled around a mouthful of burrito.

Flashing a puzzled smile, Kym quietly remarked, "Yeah. And no courier service in our area had made ANY deliveries to either victim. Real puzzle piece…" She frowned.

"Were the boxes large or small?" queried Sam.

"We actually reassembled both of them and they were only about thirty-six inches high and eighteen inches wide, about the size of a two dozen roses florist box, little bigger maybe." She shrugged, unsure of the box size significance.

Sam finished a mouthful of taco salad and urged her to reveal more about the method of death in each case. "All we read in the papers, Kym, was that they were stabbed just like the judge was. Were they just plain stabbings…? Or was there something more?"

Grabbing her drink, Kym washed down a mouthful of chicken burrito and excitedly fed them more actual facts of the attacks instead of the sanitized news version. "Man, that's where it gets pretty weird! Jennings was cut through the hamstrings, apparently to stop his escape, then stabbed repeatedly and finally someone or _something actually chewed his ear off! _… Afriend working the Judge's death said she was stabbed right through the car's seat twice then a large knife was forced through her lower jaw into her brain! She had a bite on her face too. The Cutler case had NO bites but somebody had cut his tongue out, and…" She paused uncomfortably, glancing around nervously at the other customers.

"And...? And...?" Dean prompted, anxiously.

"And… before he died, somebody cut off his 'wedding tackle'!" she exclaimed in shock.

"His what?" Dean and Sam chimed in tandem.

"His… His… um… you know…" the red-faced girl fanned her hand repeatedly towards her lap. Seeing the lack of understanding in the hunters' handsome faces, she blurted out, "His joy-stick!"

"Ohhhh…! Ewwwww!" Understanding the meaning of the term finally hit both boys and had them wincing in sympathetic pain.

Changing from the rather uncomfortable mental picture of Mr. Cutler's death, Kym continued, "Whoever this kid is with the footprints, they walked all over the crime scenes. Tracked blood everywhere they went. My friend said he found a bloody, partial footprint on the seat in the Judge's car and three outside of it. But the really odd thing was neither of us located ANY adult footprints!"

"So… these bites? Were they human or animal bites, Kym?" Dean nudged verbally, hoping to see a dark-side link to the killings.

"Surprisingly the coroner couldn't determine that. Tried extracting DNA from the bite wounds and said there was none. None! That's unheard of! " Kym appeared totally perplexed that science had been stumped on that one.

Dean and Sam both shrugged and frowned in support. "Maybe he missed something," suggested Sam weakly.

"Our coroner is so thorough and good at what he does, he gives seminars on forensics. He misses nothing! How the hell can you bite someone, whether you're a human or critter, and not leave saliva? That's just not possible!" Kym was incredulous.

That single declaration brought grim smiles to both the hunters' handsome faces and firm resolve to get to the bottom of this. The hunt was on!

They finished the meal in casual conversation and after taking the bubbly Kym's phone number for future contact, the hunters excused themselves, piling into the Impala for a quick change of personas and a trip to interview Mrs. Frank Cutler.

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Pulling up to the curb outside the wrought-iron fence surrounding the mansion belonging to the late Mr. Cutler's in-laws, Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, adjusting his tie uncomfortably. "Damn, Sammy! Can't believe you wanted a job where you had to wear one of these friggin' nooses all-day, everyday." He grimaced as if in physical pain.

Shooting Dean a disdainful, quitcherbitchin' dirty look, Sam ran a comb through his unruly locks. "Who are we again, Dean?"

"Field agents for the Insurance Division of the State Bar Association… I figured that would sound legitimate." With a grin, he handed Sam an official-looking wallet with an ID and photo.

Staring at his and then Dean's ID, Sam looked miffed, "Hey, how come you get Lars Ulrich and I get that loser band member, Jef Warner?"

"Don't pout, Sammy. Next time you can be Cliff Burton, promise!"

"Oh, swell," Sam muttered gloomily, "Then I can be a dead guy! Real upgrade! Thanks loads."

Together they buzzed in at the front gate and ten minutes later were in the presence of Frank Cutler's aggrieved widow. Sitting in an elegantly appointed parlor to the right of the large foyer, the hunters, clad in their best suits, were sipping coffee from fine china as the widow filled them in on Frank Cutler's final days.

Dressed in a very unwidowlike, peach-colored dress and sweater-jacket, she was the poster child for well-to-do country club members on their way to another boring brunch. Although she did actually tear up a bit—once—she showed no signs of lost sleep or crying binges.

"Where was I when Frank died, Mr. Warner?" She tucked her dark brown pageboy cut hair neatly behind her ears. "Well, Frank and I had never been passionately close, but all couples have some problems, don't they?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "That afternoon I came back from a little shopping to find him quite intoxicated. After a brief argument, he confessed to some infidelity and I simply packed a few suitcases and told him I was going to my parents for a while. I left and four hours later Frank was dead. At first the police said it might be suicide. Would be nice to think my leaving had that kind of effect on him But later they found evidence that someone had caused him harm and pushed him from the balcony."

Dean was amazed at her rather emotionless delivery of the facts. Times like these made him so happy not to be married. He could see Sam's jaw clenching a bit at the ice-queen's words as well, but he knew that stifled attorney inside his brother would want the facts and nothing but the facts. So, Sam hung on each and every word she uttered.

"We were told that your husband suffered some form of mutilation, Mrs. Cutler." Dean mentioned solemnly.

"Yes, the police had the audacity to think I might have had something to do with his death because of the types of injuries he received. Whoever killed him cut out Frank's tongue and severed his penis as well. After all his lies and his cheating, I actually see a certain poetic justice to what they did. Believe me though when I say, I had nothing to do with any of that. Though I wish I had thought of it." With an aristocratic glare directed at the hunters, she moved to the large window overlooking the large perfectly manicured flower garden. "Frank and I would have quietly divorced and that would have been the end of it. Now with the way he died, I'm not even certain I can return to the apartment my parents bought for us."

Feeling a twisted sympathy for the wronged wife, Sam rose, touching her shoulder lightly. "We are so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cutler."

Shrugging off his concern she spoke, changing the subject quite suddenly, "Will you gentlemen need access to the apartment? I'm not certain if the police are done there yet, but I can give you the key. Just leave it with the doorman or security guard when you're done."

Stepping out of the room for a few moments, she quickly returned with a single silver key. "The maid will show you to the door." With a swish of her skirt, she left them in her wake, dumbfounded.

"Well, okay, then…" Dean muttered softly as they followed the maid to the entryway. "Guess we've been dismissed. Let's go change clothes and check out this client that Jennings had, hmmm?"

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Forty minutes later, the boys found themselves on the road to see Mr. Buttons Scofield, a rather unhappy client of the late Ted Jennings. Mrs. Cutler had mentioned that he had once made a rather threatening call to their home while he was involved in some litigation with her late husband. Sam had found through the county records office that a will had gone through probate court and ended very badly for Mr. Scofield, but little real information existed on the man himself. He seemed by all standards and practices a likely candidate for some form of revenge, but was it supernatural revenge? Only time would tell.

"Alrighty then, trusty geekboy… Where does the almighty Mapquest tell us to turn now?" Dean queried, grinning over at Sam who was still looking dazed over the motel giving them free access to a computer and printer. Dean reached out to touch his brother's shoulder and bring him back down to earth. "Sammy, hey! Come on, I'm actually giving you a chance to 'tell me where to go' here and you're ignoring me!"

Sam flashed a quick grin before he resumed studying the printout in his hand. He pointed left at the next intersection. "Dean, why'd you have to find us such a great motel? Damn, another day at the Wigwam and they'll have to force us to leave, kicking and screaming!"

"Actually, Sammy, you're forcing my hand here, but what the hell… Maybe it'll motivate you to end this hunt quickly! I already booked us for six more glorious nights of soft beds and a big-screen TV!"

The delighted grin that washed over Sam's face, and the sudden sparkle in his eyes, was all the thanks Dean needed.

Another five minutes of driving and Dean steered the big Impala into a parking spot in front of a large two-story house that would have fit more comfortably into the Midwest. Surrounded by flatter, single-story adobe ranch homes, the house stuck out like a sore thumb.

Making sure their handguns were tucked securely down the backs of their waistbands, the young hunters climbed from their black beast and headed towards the next piece in their little puzzle. Mounted between wooden posts near the front porch was a simple sign: MUSEUM Hours 10a.m. – 4 p.m. Monday thru Saturday

"Looks like we have an hour to look around," Sam said, glancing at his watch. "Wonder what kind of museum it is?"

"Not sure exactly, Sam," mumbled his brother, "I'm just hoping that our Mr. Scofield handles the tours personally. It'll save us having to find him."

Treading quietly up the stairs, they rang the bell beside the door. Peering through the window nearest the door, they couldn't help but notice two brightly painted clown dolls on a table behind the glass.

"Shit! You've GOTTA be kidding me!" Sam gasped. Eyes locked on the objects, Sam automatically began to back up. Dean could hear his breath hitch slightly. Catching Sam's arm, he steadied the younger man.

"Sammy, it's okay. I'm here with you. I swear I won't let anything happen to you. We'll go in gather our information and leave. Come on. Everything will be fine." He could feel Sam's tension subside a little.

Suddenly, the enormous door swung open and an innocuous-looking little man about 5'6" stepped onto the porch. He smiled a friendly, but mousy, smile and swept his arm towards the front door, "Good afternoon, Gentlemen. I'm Buttons. Welcome to my humble little museum and abode. Are you here for a fun tour?"

As the little gray-haired man stepped back into the house, Dean took Sam's elbow, guiding him toward the opening. "See, Tiger… nothing to fear," he whispered. "Look, nothing but lots of posters and photos on the wall. See? You'll be safe. I promise."

Sam kept nodding his head like a little bobble-head doll as he allowed his protective big brother to ease him gently into the hallway. Hanging on almost every inch of wall space, even above the staircase, were framed photos and posters of all ages and sizes. Sam began to breathe a bit easier, until he noticed many were depicting various clowns and circus names.

By then, Buttons had begun his animated spiel, pointing out various people and items in the photos and rattling off historical facts about the pictures and circus life in general.

Dean tried to force himself to appear thoroughly absorbed even though most of his attention and concentration was directed toward his uneasy little brother who was beginning to tremble like a leaf in the wind.

As they came before a massive life-sized painting of a beautiful, olive-skinned woman garbed as a gypsy, even Sam calmed for a moment to listen. She was fascinating, with long dark hair tumbling from beneath a silk scarf and sensuous, ruby-red lips accented by large, dark, sad eyes.

Buttons sensed their captivation with the portrait and his voice became even more dramatic. "And this lovely lady, gentlemen, was my beloved mother. Spent most of her life reading palms and telling fortunes in several circuses around the country. She came by her great skill through inheritance. A true Gypsy, as were her mother and ancestors before her, she became much envied. She was eventually forced into seclusion by charges of being a witch, a practitioner of the Black Arts! Nothing was ever proven, of course, and through some divine design all of her accusers eventually died very strange deaths."

Pausing to see if his dramatic monologue had made the impression the little man usually did on the 'rubes' that rolled through his front door, he was a bit puzzled by the calmness of the two visitors. _Hummpf!! Damn tourists! Bored already!_

Dean and Sam had heard every word he'd said and, as usual, the hunters were brain-linked on their powers of observation and sense of the supernatural. A quick, almost imperceptible, look was exchanged as they both registered the distinct possibility that this was indeed _their kind of hunt!_ _Divine design, my ass!_

As Buttons led the way further into the museum, Dean felt Sam stiffen suddenly as the diminutive man came to a doorway and turned to announce, "And now we come to our crown jewel… The Clown Collection! I'm particularly proud of this, having been a clown for many years. I now design clown faces and even dolls. Come along, boys. You're going to love this!"

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	6. Chapter 6

_**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy! **__Chapter 6 Entrance of the Gladiators_

Scofield Museum of Circus History Albuquerque, New Mexico 

Trepidation had Sam's feet feeling like they were nailed to the floor. The last thing he wanted to do was step across that threshold to the next room and move deeper into clown hell.

His inner pep talk monologue was more full of stutters than it was pep and wasn't helping in the least. He tried to take a page out of Dean's book and hum something he considered soothing, but for some perverse reason, all that came out were a few _doot doot doodle oodle's_ of "Thunder and Blazes", the screamer march most circuses used to introduce their clowns. Definitely not helping.

Dean discreetly elbowed Sam in the side and mouthed, "You okay?"

Sam moved his head up and down in a jerky half nod. Taking a deep breath, he forced his own feet to follow in his brother's footsteps. The next room was dimly lit and smelled musty and dusty. Mustard yellow walls likely meant to lend cheer to the room instead bathed everything in an odd sickly glow. The small space was stuffed full of a bizarre assemblage of clown memorabilia.

Buttons Scofield offered a prideful grin and flung his arms wide. "And here it is—the heart of my humble museum. Not on par with the Clowns International Clowns' Gallery and Museum in jolly old London. But it's mine. All mine." There was a disturbingly fervent spark in the man's eyes when he muttered the word 'mine'.

"So . . . Buttons—now there's a name for ya . . . you said you were a clown?" queried Dean as he bent forward to view an age-dulled glass display case of a variety of multi-colored clown noses.

"My given name was Bartolo. But my mother called me 'Buttons' from the beginning. Said she knew my destiny. And, yes, I was a clown for many years. I had aspired to be the next Joseph Grimaldi."

"Joseph Grimaldi?"

"Yes. The earliest true circus clown to appear—went by the rather unimaginative name of "Joey". But he was a true master. He first appeared in England in 1805. Specialized in pratfalls, tumbling, slapstick—that sort of thing."

"And you wanted to be just like him?"

"Of course. Who wouldn't aspire to such greatness?"

"Yeah—greatness," he echoed. Dean moved on to the next glass case which contained a collection of dirty rag dolls with clown faces. Each clumsily stitched face wore a mighty frown.

"You probably don't realize that the history of clowning is long and intricate," the little man did his best to look down his nose at the two taller men as he rocked forward and back on his feet. "Did you know there are many different kinds of clowns—white face clowns, Auguste clowns, character clowns—which includes rodeo clowns and mimes. Then there's the tramp or hobo clown and the Auguste Elite clown. It's all in the make up really. Though for the uneducated, the costumes seem to matter a great deal."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes and glanced at Sam who stood slightly behind him. He was surprised to see that his brother actually seemed to be paying attention to what Buttons had to say and his outright fear had lessened, at least slightly.

Buttons turned and continued shuffling down the corridor, his hard-soled shoes tap-tapping sonorously on the worn and cracked brown linoleum. The little man pointed to various items as he walked, including a mismatched collection of juggling items and other props.

"As you will see when we get to the back, I specialize in clown dolls of all shapes and sizes. Several of them are one that I designed as a matter of fact."

Dean spied a rusty unicycle and an old pair of stilts leaning against the dingy yellow wall. With a little smirk, he pointed at the stilts and called over his shoulder, "Hey, Sam, look! IF you were to become a clown, you wouldn't even need to use those things, huh? 'Cause you already have those freakishly long stilts you call legs."

"Ha ha. Your stand up needs a little work, dude," muttered Sam.

The trio came to a small alcove in the back corner of the room. Tucked on a shelf in the alcove was a worn red-and-white striped circus tent diorama, complete with tiny performers. Scofield flicked a switch and the tent lit up, the miniature figures springing to life.

"And here, if you push this button, you'll hear the classic circus clown introduction music—"

"Officially known as 'Thunder and Blazes'," finished Sam.

"Why, yes. Also known as—"

"Entrance of the Gladiators."

Dean looked at Sam with a perplexed expression and said, "How the hell do you know stuff like that? Sometimes you scare me with that freaky brain of yours."

Sam managed a half grin and shrugged.

Busy with their brotherly exchange, neither man noticed the glower Buttons levied at Sam for upstaging him. He pushed the little white button and tinny, frenetic music filled the air. The former clown twisted his lips into a spiteful moue when the taller of the two men jumped a little at the sudden sound.

Buttons bent forward and plucked a square box from a low shelf to the side of the alcove. He thrust the black-and-white box into Sam's hands.

"Here try this. It's a special jack-in-the-box I created long ago."

"Uh . . . no . . . that's okay." Sam tried to push the box back into the little man's hands.

"Oh, come on. You're not . . . afraid . . . are you?" challenged Buttons, the smirk clear on his face.

Dean scowled and reached for the box. "Here—lemme do it."

Feeling ridiculous, Sam pulled the toy out of Dean's reach. "No. I'll do it." He swallowed hard and began turning the handle. Sickly notes of "Pop Goes the Weasel" sounded. The music was about as cheerful as a funeral dirge. Sam braced himself. At the end of the song, the lid popped up and a spring-loaded clown—all blood-red eyes and snarls launched from the box's innards. In the clown's hand was a little knife. Before the figure even stopped bouncing and swaying from side-to-side, Sam shoved the box back on the shelf. "You designed that as a kid's toy?" he inquired incredulously.

"Yes. Yes, it was part of my special collection. Was never able to market them though."

Stepping back from the shelf, Sam muttered, "Can't imagine why."

Ignoring Sam's comment, the former clown began walking once more. They rounded the corner and Buttons' face lit up. "And here's the best part of my museum."

Even Dean's steps faltered as he took in Scofield's prized collection of clown dolls. He felt his brother stop behind him. Dean jumped when Sam whispered in his ear.

"Dude, you notice how almost everything in this place borders on the macabre?"

"Yeah, I noticed. Clowns or no clowns this place is friggin' creepy."

The brothers tuned back in to Buttons' monologue just as he was pointing to, and extolling the virtues of, his piece de resistance. While the rest of the dolls bordered on the macabre, this particular clown doll wallowed gleefully in the middle of it like a pig in a mud puddle. Long, needle-like teeth protruded from its mouth and seemed to glisten with silvery, wet saliva while huge egg yolk yellow eyes glared sightlessly at the Winchester brothers. The clown's once-white face was cracked and wrinkled and dappled with darker flecks of color.

One full on look at the doll and Sam literally had to resist the urge to run. His legs trembled with the need. For him, it was the stuff of nightmares. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd see this thing in dreams for some time to come. A quick glance at Dean revealed his brother's own discomfiture at the doll's appearance.

In truth, Dean wanted to run too. Though he obviously didn't share his brother's phobia, there was just something about this creepy doll that had shivers doing a slow tango up and down his spine. Instead of giving in, he locked his knees and thrust his chin forward exuding his usual confidence and cockiness—if for no other reason than to anchor his little brother.

"This—this was my masterpiece!" crowed Buttons. "I called him Chaos the Clown."

"Chaos the Clown," echoed the elder Winchester. "Clever. He . . . uh . . . he's . . . different."

"Which was exactly the point. I should have made a fortune off of him."

Hearing the bitterness in the little man's voice, Sam—figuring now was as good as time as any—said, "I don't suppose he . . . uh . . . had anything to do with that will and the case you lost a while back?"

Buttons' face darkened and suspicion flooded his eyes. "What would you know about that? Who ARE you two anyway?" The little man clenched his fists and took a threatening step forward.

Dean held up his hands, palms out. "Whoa there, Ronald McDonald. We're insurance investigators. We were speaking with Mrs. Cutler, our decedent's widow, and she mentioned a threatening phone call her husband had received . . . from you. Now, the company pays us to be thorough and seeing as how we both want to keep our jobs . . ."

"Oh, please. That call meant nothing," Buttons eyed the two men slyly. "I had one too many drinks one night. Did a stupid thing. Doesn't change the fact that I would have made a fortune if that bastard hadn't cheated me."

"Bastard? Meaning Frank Cutler?"

"No. I mean, yes, Cutler was a bastard. But not the one who cheated me. That title goes to Winfield Thomas."

"So who's this Thomas Winfield?"

"Winfield Thomas."

"Right—whatever. Who is he?"

Buttons pursed his mouth. "A nobody."

Sensing they weren't going to get much more out of this haughty little man, Dean made one last ditch effort. "How about Ted Jennings and Paige Whitsen—you familiar with them?"

"But of course. My attorney and the judge who presided over that fiasco they called a case. I read about their deaths in the paper."

"You don't seem too concerned with all these terrible murders . . ."

"Should I be? As far as I'M concerned, someone's doing the world a favor." Buttons sighed and ran a hand lovingly over the Chaos the Clown doll. "If that is all . . . gentlemen . . . I really must ask you to leave so I may close up the museum for the day." As he spoke, Buttons herded the two men toward the front door, forgoing his usual pitch for a donation to cover the tour.

Dean opened the door and motioned for Sam to exit the building first. He waited a beat and then turned back to Buttons, who stood behind him. In a blink, Dean grabbed Buttons' left wrist and squeezed hard until he felt the bones grind together. He heard the other man gasp and watched as his already pasty complexion went a shade lighter. He leaned forward and whispered, "You know, Bartolo—you really shouldn't fuck with people like you did with him," Dean arrowed his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Sam, who'd reached the Impala. " 'Cause you just never know who you're dealing with." The hunter dropped the former clown's wrist and stalked away, ignoring the loud thump as the door slammed closed.

The driver's door of the '67 Chevy issued its customary squeak as he opened it, dropped down in his seat, and pulled it closed after him.

"What was that all about?" Sam asked, cocking his head toward the building they'd just exited.

"Ahh, nuthin'. Just giving a little friendly advice to Clownie McCreepy back there. So, whatdaya think? I'm thinkin' he's ass-deep in this mess somehow."

When Sam didn't respond, Dean looked over and saw Sam staring at him an odd look on his face.

"Hey, you're not still freaked out by all those clown thingys, are you? 'Cause we're safe at 'home' now, you know." Dean lovingly patted the leather seat of the Impala. His brother finally looked up at him. "Sammy?"

"No. No, I'm not still freaked about the clowns," not entirely true, thought Sam, but Dean didn't need to know that. He half grinned at his older sibling. "Dude, you actually used the word 'decedent' back there. I'm . . . I'm . . . impressed." The light slap to the back of his head came right on cue, and Sam laughed, relaxing for the first time in a very long hour.

Hearing Sam's laugh put a smile on Dean's face as he put the car into gear and they roared away from Sam's living nightmare.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Buttons watched the big, black car take off with a throaty growl of the engine. Annoyed by their visit and interrogation, he marched back inside the back room, grumbling under his breath. The little man reached up and pulled the Chaos the Clown doll off the shelf.

"Insurance investigators? I don't think so. Unfortunately, our work is far from done now, Chaos. We've more plans to make and people to punish." Tucking the doll under his arm, Buttons went in search of his grimoire.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Loud growly, rumbling from Dean's empty stomach filled the interior of the car. "So what next? I say we go search out some food."

Sam glanced at his watch. "It's a couple of minutes after 4:00 o'clock. Before we go eat, I think we should go interview the judge's law clerk, a woman by the name of—" he grabbed some papers off the back seat and quickly shuffled through them, "Pinky Sutton, while we still have time."

"Pinky? Are you kidding? You mean like Pinky Tuscadero in 'Happy Days'? Although now that I think about it, I always liked Leather Tuscadero better."

The younger man rolled his eyes. "Dude, you totally watch too much TV."

"Ahh, you just don't know your classics, man."

Sam snorted. "Whatever. Let's just get to the courthouse before she leaves for the day."

"Hey, I wonder if she'll be as hot as Leather was."

"Just drive, you perv."

Dean finally located the courthouse about 15 minutes later and pulled into an empty parking space a block or so away. They made their way into the building and found Pinky with relative ease. To Dean's delight, Pinky was indeed a pretty woman in a subtle, girl-next-door kind of way. His delight rapidly turned to bemusement, however, when it became clear she preferred his college-boy, shaggy-haired brother over him. Slightly miffed, he leaned against the wall of her tiny office while his younger sibling folded his lanky frame into the weird-looking ergonomic chair in front of Pinky's cluttered desk.

Sam cleared his throat and started, "So, Ms. Sutton—"

"Please, call me Pinky." The woman's limpid blue eyes gazed impishly at the younger Winchester.

"Oh—okay. So, Pinky, you were Judge Whitsen's law clerk?"

"Yes, for the last seven or eight months."

"How was she as a boss?"

"She was okay, I suppose."

"You don't seem too broken up over her death."

"Well, I am—I mean—her murder is just horrible. But her and I weren't particularly friendly. I think . . . I think she saw me as a rival."

"A rival? But she was already a judge. Why would she . . ."

"Not a professional rival, silly," Pinky smiled, "a rival in the romantic realm. It wasn't so bad at first . . . until she caught Frank Cutler flirting with me one day."

Sam tented his fingers under his chin. "And that bothered her because?"

Pinky giggled. "Why do you think? It was the world's best unkept secret."

Dean straightened from the slouch he'd fallen into and spoke for the first time since attempting to flirt with the law clerk. "Wait—you mean Judge Whitsen and Frank Cutler were . . . knocking boots?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You betcha. They were boinking each other like clock work. You coulda set your watch by 'em. And at the very motel where she was murdered."

"Did the police suspect Cutler at all?" asked Dean.

The law clerk shrugged. "I dunno. Probably. But I think he had an alibi."

Sam picked up the questioning again. "So did the judge have any strange things happen to her in the days or weeks before her death?"

"Strange? Like what?"

"Seeing or hearing anything odd? Routinely finding things out of place? Weird accidents? Anything?"

If the woman found his questions bizarre, she didn't show it. "No. No, nothing that I know of. She was her usual sanctimonious self."

Thanking her for her time, Sam stood to leave. Before he could move away from her desk, Pinky stood and leaned forward, displaying her abundant . . . charms. She reached out a hand, fingers glittering with a variety of rings, and caressed Sam's arm through his several layers of sleeves.

"Are you . . . are you going to be . . . would you like to have dinner?"

Sam felt a blush warm his cheeks. "No! I mean, I'm sorry but we've got more investigative work to do before we leave town." He backed away, angling for the door. Once out in the hallway, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Dean joined him a couple of seconds later, wearing one of his trademark smirks. "I dunno, Sammy, you shoulda gone for the hot chick, bro. She was so 'into' you."

The younger Winchester ignored his brother and used his longer legs to put a considerable distance between them.

(SN) (SN) (SN)

Twenty minutes later, the Winchester brothers found themselves at the Eat Here! Diner with the laptop fired up and Sam's notes stacked on the table in front of him. A middle-aged waitress brought them menus.

"Man, I am starving," announced Dean, rubbing his belly. He flipped open his menu at the same time as Sam.

"Why do you even bother?" 

"Bother with what?"

"Opening your menu. You usually order a burger and fries. If I bet money on it, I'd make a fortune."

Dean shot him an evil look over the top of the plastic-coated pages. Then, seeing the slight frown and pinched look around Sam's eyes that he knew indicated the beginnings of a headache, Dean dared, "I'll order something healthy if you order a burger and fries. And a chocolate milkshake."

Sam stared at his older sibling for a second trying to judge his sincerity before nodding in agreement.

When the waitress returned, Dean waited until Sam placed his order. Then he added his own. "I'll have your Barbequed Chipped Ham Sandwich and macaroni salad. Oh—and a strawberry milkshake."

After the waitress left, Sam raised an eyebrow and said, "That's healthy?"

"Sure! It's got the word salad in there, right? And strawberries in the milkshake. That counts."


	7. Chapter 7

_**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy**__ Chapter 7_

Wee Wampum Wigwam Motel Midnight 

A thump!!… A muted groan…"Oww!"… Then… "Sonuvabitch!!"

Midnight had arrived, the 'magic witching hour'. But, nothing magical was happening for Dean Winchester. Unless you considered the fact that the meal he had made disappear five hours before he had just made re-appear, several times in the last 30 minutes, but not by choice! As his fourth trip to the bathroom turned into a real 'trip' into a beautiful, wooden table leg, he cursed!

He quickly glanced towards Sam's bed, grateful to see no movement prompted by his pained outcry. Hastily hobbling into the too bright motel bathroom, he found himself miserably 'dry retching'. Damn, he hated that! Choking down an entire tumbler of cold water just so he could have something to jettison on the next go 'round, he shuffled silently back to his comfy, warm bed, his only wish...to be able to stay in it this time.

Tonight, he'd gone to sleep clearly expecting to be awake most of the night anyway. It's just that he had figured it would be sleepless Sam's disturbing 'clownie' dreams that would keep him running all night, not food poisoning from his smart-ass 'healthy' food choices.

Damned good lesson to be learned from this, Dean, old buddy! Stick to your own four healthy 'food groups'…Coffee, pie, greasy burgers and fries! Sooo much healthier and safer! Shit! How does Sammy survive on that crap? No wonder why he seems grumpy all the time!

Lying still as death in his warm bed, he blocked out all sounds except the exceedingly soft whispers of Sam's breathing. Locking his mind onto those gentle hissing sounds, he allowed himself to be lulled back to sleep, comforted by the nearness of his little brother. He was at peace as long as Sam was.

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

_**7:30 a.m. **_

Letting the life restoring powers of a long, hot shower replenish the energy his lack of sleep had robbed him of, Dean climbed contentedly out to a fluffy white towel. Quickly toweling off he gave his spiked hair a rough rubbing, before donning fresh clothes pulled from his duffel.

With Sam still 'sawing logs' he quietly slipped into his boots and out of their room. Taking great pains to stealthily exit and close the door without the usual prerequisite 'click', he decided to walk to the office for a short visit with Charley and some donuts and coffee, hoping his food poisoning had run its course.

Dean figured he'd drag back a bit of breakfast before they 'suited' up and headed for the Cutlers' luxury apartment for a 'look see' and an EMF scan. Not sure if his still sour stomach would be happy with his morning choices, Dean headed for the motel office and his buddy, Charley Two-Horse. He was convinced a carafe of Charley's great black coffee would soon put him back on the right track.

No sooner was he out the door of their teepee and into the cool morning air, than his ears and throbbing head were assaulted by the high-pitched wail of a business's alarm system. Hoping not to reactivate his stomach troubles, Dean wrapped his arms tightly across his bruised-feeling mid-section and bolted towards the main tepee as if chased by a demon. Breaking into a loping stride as he popped through the office door and slammed it shut against the eardrum-shattering screech.

Charley lifted his head from his bookwork, grinning gratefully. "Lovely wake-up call, eh, Mr. Hetfield? Not a good way to start or end a day, in fact."

"Charley, what the Sam Hell is that? Shit! What a racket!" Dean leaned hard against the door willing his stomach to calm down. "Nearly had a cardiac incident out there."

Charley with his stoic demeanor shrugged his tired old shoulders. "Well, we've filed plenty of petitions but nothing works, Electronic Emporium about 300 yards down and across the road. Never heard an alarm that loud, seems like it oughta be illegal! Damned thing screams louder than a Comanche at any hour of the day or night. Resets itself in eight minutes so seems nobody really cares. Place is owned by the mayor's brother-in-law! You'd think he'd worry about all those plasma and big screen TVs! Must pay through the nose for insurance premiums. Cops don't even bother to stop there anymore!"

"No shit?!" Dean mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate-covered donut. "What if there's a real break-in?"

"Don't know…" Charley shrugged, "Don't care! Man shows no concern for my business or customers so I really don't care if it burns to the ground!" Scratching his chin gently, his eyes brightened as he added philosophically, "Shit! Might actually be a good thing! No building… No alarm…!"

Looking at the office bulletin board, Dean reached out and patted one of the posted flyers. "Hell, Charley! Maybe at this Rain Dance you could put in a special request for rain with plenty of lightning!" he offered with an encouraging, mischievous grin.

They both enjoyed a hearty chuckle. "A very good suggestion… I'll take that under strong consideration." The old man looked up at Dean with deep concern. "Only one donut today? Are you feeling sick? I bought extras knowing your appetite!" The old man smiled affably at his favorite young tenant.

"Ahh, kind of you, Charley... My brother talked me into eating some health food last night at supper. Garbage sure didn't agree with me, had me up half the night!"

"My daughter tried that same crap with me for awhile. Had to explain real men don't eat tofu!" Tossing in a light shudder for effect, he grimaced in disgust. Thoughtfully loading up a plate with a half dozen big donuts and éclairs, Charley pushed them across the counter towards Dean along with a carafe of fresh coffee. "Well, maybe your appetite will come back in a while. I'm sure that long-legged brother of yours can make short work of at least a few of these."

Nodding his still aching head, and smiling at the old man's kindness, Dean said his thanks and headed back to their teepee. As Dean elbowed the door open, he noticed Sam's bed was now empty and the shower running. Sitting down to a cup of strong black coffee, he began to rummage through the notes they had gathered on the recent deaths and that nasty, creepy bastard, Buttons.

Sam dragged the bathroom door open, rubbing at his shaggy brown locks, a towel knotted around his bare hips. Seeing Dean at the table with the donuts and java, he grinned, "Was wondering where you ran off to… Sleep well?"

"Not particularly," Dean grimaced, "I swear to God, Sam, no more salads for me… ever! Was as sick as a dog last night!"

With an indignant glare, Sam adamantly jumped in to defend his healthy diet, "Dude! What you ate last night was so NOT a salad! It was macaroni, and … and whatever and quite obviously mayonnaise gone bad! They only tag it as a _salad_ 'cuz nobody knows what else to call that garbage!"

"Well, _Emeril_, if restaurants call it a salad then I'll believe them. And I'll just steer clear of salads from now on."

Sam slid on some boxers before removing his towel, "Whatever, Dean… So what's on the agenda today? Just promise me no more tours of clown museums and I'll agree to nearly anything! I swear."

The twinge of discomfort in Sam's voice almost made Dean feel sorry for him, almost. "Naww, Sammy, had more than enough of that bozo, Buttons. Even I hope we won't have to see that sucker again anytime soon, but I think we both know that bastard is in this mess right up to his red, blinking nose!"

Sam reluctantly nodded in agreement. "So where to first, Dean?" He stepped up to the table, and grabbing an éclair he hungrily wolfed it down in three big bites. Adding cream and sugar to his cuppajoe he seized another delicious donut.

"Well, thank God, clowns don't dampen your appetite, little brother." Dean grinned, snatching the last chocolate-covered éclair from the plate before that too worked its way into Sam's gullet. "First things first, I guess, Sammy… We'll check out the Cutler place. A few good EMF readings and we'll at least know it's a gig for us and not the cops. Imagine suits for the condo, huh?" Dean frowned disdainfully, "…and ties?"

Sam grinned at Dean's discomfort, "As your reward, bro', for wearing a 'noose' we can stop somewhere for a big greasy burger and pie when we're done. Will that soothe your chafed neck?" Taking Dean's boyish grin as agreement Sam slid into the chair in front of his laptop. "Just need to pull up a little info on that Whitfield Thomas dude and then we can go. Okay?"

"Winfield."

"What?" "It's Winfield Thomas, not Whitfield."

Dean rolled hid eyes at his brother, "Winfield. Whitfield. Whatever!"

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

Forty minutes later the big Detroit beauty cruised to a stop across the street from the tall elegant building once occupied by the late Frank Cutler. Key in hand, the two neatly suited hunters stepped through the classy double doors and presented themselves at the massive black marble security desk. Briefly flashing official-looking badges and IDs, Dean addressed the grim-faced ex-military man in the blue wool condo-issued blazer.

"Field agents with the insurance division with the State Bar Association…" Dean began.

"Ahhh, Mr. Ulrich… Mr. Warner… Mrs. Cutler said to expect your visit today. She said you could leave the key with me when you have completed your inspection of the premises," a phony accommodating smile graced the man's lips. "Will you need my assistance in any way, gentlemen?" he added with a hint of reluctance.

_Smarmy bastard,_ Dean thought. _Perfect for dealing with moneyed people! Kiss-ass..._

"No, we won't be all that long," Sam answered quickly, watching the man's eyes drift gratefully to the new sports magazine Sam had seen him ditch as they'd entered.

Moving into an elevator they were whooshed to the twelfth floor in mere seconds.

Entering the residence the hunters ignored all the fine trappings and sumptuous furnishings and zeroed in on the apparent scene of Frank Cutler's mutilation, well marked by the dark dried puddles on the floor. Even days after the attack the heavy copper scent of spilled blood permeated the air.

Dropping to one knee, Dean inspected the blood spatter dried on the highly polished floor. Scuffmarks lead to the now tightly locked sliding glass doors, beyond them stood the balcony railing Frank had been dropped over. Blood smears were everywhere leading up to that rail.

"Yo, Sam! Check this out! Our 'kiddie' shoe prints... Man, these are so weird looking. See how wide and rounded they are?" Dean scowled at the closest print. "What's that look like to you?" Dean pointed to some odd shaped kid sized prints in dried blood. Sam gasped softly, not even pausing, as if thought wasn't even needed "Looks like minis of all those funny clown shoes in the museum display case."

Nodding grimly, Dean pulled out his EMF sensor "That's just what I was thinking. Shit!"

Instantly as the cannibalized Walkman was activated the air was filled with a high–pitched whine. The little LED lights across the nose of the unit lighting up like a miniature Christmas tree!

"Yahtzee!" The hunters exultantly exclaimed in unison.

"Okay, so definitely our kind of gig," Dean grinned, his eyes bright with anticipation of the hunt.

"Oh, goody," an unenthusiastic Sam frowned back "So not only do we get to deal with Creepo the Clown, but now there may be some kind of maniacal mini-me of his, too?"

"Yeah, Sam. Sure know you'd rather be anywhere else but Albuquerque right now, but we have to follow through."

The look of uneasiness on Sam's worried face tugged at his protective older brother's heart. "Hey, Sam… It'll be okay. I promise you. We'll be in as little contact with clowns as we can manage."

"Had one of those sinking feelings the minute that clown mentioned 'Gypsy' and 'witch' in the same breath." Sam shook his head in disgust.

"Yeah, obviously 'Mommy Dearest' left Black Bart something more than that portrait. I'm thinking, depending on what we find when we look into the guy that inherited all the clownie toys' patents, we may need to go search for mommy's magic books. Cuz' I gotta say, Sam, I don't think I like where this is heading." Dean's face darkened with real concern. "If that house has to be searched, I want you sitting safely in our little teepee, while I do some breaking and entry. I don't want any argument from you when that time comes." He shot Sam his patented 'subject closed to further discussion' scowl, and got up to do a quick walkthrough on the rest of the condo.

As the boys searched the various rooms, the EMF unit remained silent. The last room on the return trip down the hallway was protected by a closed door, as Dean pushed his way inside he planted a palm firmly against Sam's chest halting his entry and moving him back a few feet. "Nawww, Sammy. This one is so off-limits to you. Trust me! This nursery is like an advertisement for 'Clowns-R-Us'. I can check this out all by myself, thank you."

As Dean re-entered the room and moved towards the closet the EMF unit began a steadily escalating audible alarm. Pulling it once more from his pocket, Dean opened the closet door with his handkerchief, not wanting to leave any usable fingerprints. Poking around among the boxes and baby items overflowing the large walk-in unit he spotted a small chunk of shredded cardboard jutting out from under the bottom shelf near the door. Waving the EMF detector over it sent the little machine into overdrive. He set the brown box piece on the dresser and rescanned the closet. No signal. Stepping back into the nursery, again near the cardboard the sensors went berserk.

Seeing Sam standing pensively in the hall, Dean gave a report on his findings. "Sam, I think the 'mini-me' idea may be pretty dead-on. Was thinking just now about Kym saying how they found torn up boxes both at the Jennings place and here. Well, this must be a piece the cops missed. Man! It's got something supernatural stamped all over it! Did you hear my baby gizmo singing for me in there?"

Grimly Sam nodded in agreement, "Well, guess the next stop will be Winfield Thomas's place then, huh, Dean? Make sure the dude's okay."

As they left the building the hunters dropped the key with the guy in the security blazer and headed for the Impala. Tugging at his knotted tie, Dean breathed regularly again once it no longer choked him. "Let's grab a quick burger, Sam. I'm starving. We gonna need suits for this Whitfield or Winfield dude, you think? Or do we scoot home and change?"

Sam smiled grimly, "Hey, a promise is a promise… First, we grab that burger and then we can check out Mr. Thomas," seeing the happy greasy burger grin on Dean's face, he added. "You can dress down, Dean. I can handle a solo interview for once."

With a smirk, Dean tore the tie off over his head and tossed it onto the seat, "Thanks, Sammy. I sooo hate monkey suits." Turning the key in the ignition, the big motor growled to life.

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

One hour and a couple of grease-logged burgers and fries later, they cruised onto a pretty residential street in Rio Rancho. Not a house there could have sold for less than four hundred thousand! Every yard consisted of huge massive green lawns, dotted with strategically placed gardens filled with brightly colored floral displays. These were the kind of yards that only existed because of the artistry of non-residential gardeners. _Oh yeah, plenty of money around here and plenty of jealous motive for El Creepo the Clown, _thought Dean.

Sam located the house belonging to Winfield Thomas and Dean pulled around the corner as quietly as the massive throaty black machine allowed. The two brothers sat in silence for a few moments, just observing the neighborhood in general, and Winfield's house in particular. The handsome, two-story fieldstone home sat squarely on the large lot. Both side entrances looked as if they opened onto stone patios that were completely framed in dense hedges about four feet in height. The mighty oaken main doors were totally unobstructed and facing the street. All of the windows sat low on the walls and were too easily accessible to Dean's liking.

"Sammy, you're gonna have to convince this dude he needs some kind of protection… cops… private dicks…whatever he can get. That house looks way to easy to get into. Try really hard okay? I can't see _my baby _parked in this neighborhood on a stakeout, too much attention… Think they're only into those postage stamp sized foreign jobs. We can't help him much, I'm afraid."

As Sam reached to open his door, Dean's hand snaked out suddenly halting his exit. "Look, Sam, what the hell is going on?"

As they watched, the curtained French doors on the left side of the house slowly opened, a man in a business suit stepped cautiously outside scanning in all directions, a pistol gripped shakily in his fist. Thank God! He failed to notice the big black Chevy parked near the corner. Apparently satisfied with what he saw or maybe with what he didn't see, he went back inside closing the door once more.

Glancing quizzically at Dean, Sam slid out of the Impala, located his phony ID and grabbed a clipboard before heading for the stone house. Dean called softly after him, "Call me, Sam, if there's a problem."

Sitting patiently for the next ten minutes, Dean became nervous as he caught a glimpse of a private security car with two rent-a-guards sliding quietly down the next street over. Idling the motor as quietly as he could, he stealthily moved the eye-catching Impala onto the same street they had already patrolled. As he glided into his new parking spot, he saw the two guards pull up beside a vaguely familiar old blue van just around the corner from the Thomas house. One of the guards climbed out to question the driver and Dean frowned as the van quickly peeled away from the curb and left the subdivision. _Not good! _

Only a few minutes later he watched Sam exit the house, pausing only long enough to shake hands with Winfield Thomas. As the door closed, Sam headed for the corner where he'd last seen Dean and _his baby._ A puzzled look slid over his face, wondering how he'd lost something as big as the Impala. From behind him the deep rumble of the beast brought a smile as he realized Dean had simply circled the block for some reason.

Clambering in beside his older brother, he quickly delivered the goods. "Whoa! Door opening? Winfield tells me he heard something rattling the door handles. We even looked at it together and I swear, Dean, somebody tried to jimmy that lock with a knife! Didn't take much of a shove to get him to agree to security people after I mentioned 'knife' and 'murders' in the same sentence. Seems he's had some nasty phone calls from Black Bart as well… Says that there were threats involved, rather thinly veiled threats according to him. His uncle was a business backer for Buttons' perverted clownie toys. Since he provided the finances, the majority of the business was in his name. Therefore, when he died the shares fell to Winfield, his only heir. According to Winfield he would have been more than willing to give Bozo a good price to let the clown buy him out, but then the threats started. Now, Winfield won't budge even though he intends to bury those god-awful toy patents. Says he told Bart he wouldn't 'dirty' store shelves with that shit!"

Dean snorted at that, chuckling at the mental picture of Bartolo's shocked, insultedface, "Never met this Winfield dude but I like him already! Bet El Creepo loved that comment!"

"Yeah, well, I think we need to zero in on Buttons at this point. Not sure who attempted the break-in but I swear to God, Dean, there was a light shoe impression in the dirt near the bushes and it sure looked like it could have been those mini-shoes." Sam pulled uncomfortably at his shirt collar, swallowing hard. Dean knew it wasn't because of the tie he wore.

"Well, think as long as Winfield is looking into protection we can gather more info today and see what we can find out about Creepy Clown's mommy-dearest. Gotta be something somewhere on those witchcraft accusations, and the deaths of her accusers. May give us a better idea of who or what we're dealing with."

Frowning Sam inhaled deeply, nodding his head, "You're probably right. Let's head for home and we'll bang on the laptop awhile. If nothing else library opens early tomorrow. Might as well get a decent night's sleep before we're up to our armpits in clownshit!"

The big Impala rumbled quietly out of the subdivision and roared to life as it hit the main road.

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

Chaos snarled. He was getting nowhere with the big knife as he tried to open the doors. _Fucking humans! Paranoid much? Who puts double locks on glass doors? _Loud voices in the adjoining yard stopped him dead in his tracks.

If the neighbors hadn't just gotten home, he'd have smashed the glass and just stepped through the broken pane. He decided to have that idiot Buttons take him home and come back after nightfall. He liked causing nighttime fear the best anyway. It tasted so much sweeter! Even the blood tasted better!

He crept back through the bushes and stealthily snuck through the backdoor neighbor's yard. He cleared the front wall of the house just in time to see the van disappearing down the street. Two security assholes sat in a car by the curb preventing him from running after that moron creator of his. Now, how the hell would he get home? The hideous little creature snugged his body against the sidewall of the house as he studied the neighborhood. A few brats were playing across the street, riding some two-wheeled bikes and a tricycle in the roadway oblivious to any traffic that might need the street_. Damned friggin' loud brats!_

He watched for a while getting the hang of pedaling a stupid bike. No way in hell he was grabbing a friggin' trike so he concentrated on watching the two-wheelers. _Oh, I am so not gonna like this! Wait til I get home… Just you wait! _

Fifteen minutes crept by like an eternity as he waited impatiently for something to happen. All at once his problems cleared up! The patrol car finally went away after the idiot guards finished their coffee. Some lady stuck her head out of a car down the street and screamed at the three little human idiots to get their "asses in the house" and best of all… a little whiny girl with a bloodied scrape on her knee, rode a bright pink Barbie bike across the grass and dumped it down not five feet from where Chaos was hiding. Then to his delight, she kicked open the front door and screamed her way into her mother's arms wanting "ice cream to help my booboo". _That should keep 'em busy awhile! Now, all I gotta do is figure out how to launch this sucker!_

Chaos dragged the glow-in-the-dark pink bike up against the side of the house, propping it upright while he figured out how to clamber up onto it. Knocking it over twice, cursing the whole time like a merchant marine, he finally maneuvered his butt onto the seat and found his legs just long enough to reach that damned pedals.

Shoving both feet hard against the pedals, he pushed away from the building with his left hand. Tossing his knife into the pink wicker basket, he pointed the bike towards home and headed out into the street. A block away two nosy kids tried to ride beside the 'cute clownie' kid and asked what he was dressed up for, snarling into their faces he brandished both his horrible teeth and his big knife and "the sweet little things" rode away as fast as their stubby legs could pedal, screaming in terror. He laughed maniacally. Their terror simply became more fuel to help him get back home.

Chaos was as grateful as a demon doll could get that breathing was not a requisite to his existence. He watched the bright red bulbous toes of the little clown shoes rise into view again and again and again as he pedaled the bike faster and faster. With no possibility of becoming tired or out of breath, he turned his thoughts toward the desertion he had been made to suffer. He had zeroed in on Bartolo's unique scent and would easily be able to find his way home. He mumbled to himself all the way, his own demented little mantra.

"_Stupid fucking bastard! Sniveling coward… Screw me over like that!! __Thinks you'll get away with it…! You will be sooo sorry! Fuckin' asshole…"_ His fury propelled his short legs to pinwheel faster and faster as he whizzed down the streets. _"Takes that damned book...turns me on…turns me off… like some kinda' fuckin' lightbulb!!!" _He snarled loudly, not caring that the guy he just passed on a bike turned to stare. _"Just 'cuz I'm stuck in a fucking ridiculous clown suit doesn't mean I am one!!… That Bozo, Buttons, is gonna' be sooo sorry when I get my friggin' hands on his happy ass… Stupid sonuvabitch bringing these ghostbusters down on us 'cuz he can't keep his big clownie mouth shut… I'll show him!"_

Just then a black blur shot from a side yard… becoming a huge barking Black Labrador as it got up close, growling threateningly at Chaos. It ran beside the bike as Chaos tried to move away, snapping at the pretty pink and silver streamers flying from the handlebars. The animal yelped as Chaos suddenly growled even more loudly and gnashing his monstrous jagged yellowed teeth twice made contact with the dog's nose. The little demon clown laughed triumphantly as he rode away, shouting after the dog's tucked tail yelping retreat, "I got bigger teeth than you, puppy! Can't play with the big dogs so you better stay on the porch!"

Concentrating all his energies on turning Bartolo Scofield into his own personal 'clownie happy meal', he sped through the streets, avoiding all human contact. Forty-five minutes and many miles and questioning stares later the miserable little monster turned onto the street he and Bart called home.

"_Not going to let you shut me down again…ever! No fucking way… I like this life! Be a hell of a lot better in a bigger body, but hey... beggars can't be choosers! Maybe I'll look in that magic book of mommy's and find a way to become all that I can be! Who knows?" _Chaos rode the neon pink bike around to the back door, noting the van was in the open garage. _"Oh, boy, Buttons-buddy, have I ever got a surprise for you…! A little payback, you cowardly clown, for that little surprise you pulled on me! Time for a little lesson in who's the boss!"_

Creeping quietly up the back porch stairs, he peeled back the mat by the door and picked up the key he had seen Buttons hide there. Quietly he turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed open the kitchen door, brandishing his personal 'hunting' knife, he slid open the cutlery drawer and found an even bigger one! _Oh, yeah, now you're gonna find out who loves ya,' baby! _He grinned even more horribly when he heard Buttons talking to his mother's picture in the main hallway.

A large knife clenched in each tight-fisted hand he walked briskly through the kitchen to the hallway, calling out in that harsh demented whispery voice of his, "_Ohhhhh, Daddeeeee… I'm hooome! And have I got a bone to pick with YOU!!!"_

_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns_


	8. Chapter 8

The clown doll's stride was short but quick and his footsteps echoed throughout the foyer

**It's Called Coulrophobia, Dummy**_**!**__** Chapter 8**_** Severance Pay**

The clown doll's stride was short but quick and his footsteps echoed throughout the kitchen as he moved deeper into the house to confront his creator. His feet pattered across the worn and cracked linoleum that had once been the color of avocados but now looked more like something you'd find inside a sick baby's diaper. Gripping the knives tightly in each fist, Chaos passed the grungy old refrigerator, ignoring its last-legged hiss and growl. Without hesitation, he flung open the door to the utility closet, pulling out the rarely used broom, mop, bucket, and other household paraphernalia and scattering them across the kitchen floor. He knew the crash would have his prey bounding away like a gazelle across the savannah. In fact, Chaos was counting on it.

By the time he reached the foyer, the little man was gone, the space in front of his mother's elaborate portrait vacant except for one lone scuffed and worn-down loafer. Chaos smiled. The game was afoot.

"Oh, Bar-to-lo," he called in a singsong voice, "you don't think you can actually hide from me, do you? From me, your beloved—and deadly—creation?"

The late afternoon sun burrowed through the grime on the few small windows creating abstract geometric puzzle pieces of honey-gold light on the dingy walls. Yet, oddly enough, when the anemic sunlight ghosted over the sneering Chaos as he scurried across the room, the lighted shapes were shadows.

"Here, Buttons. Here, boy!" he whistled like he was summoning a dog. "Come to Papa."

**SN SN SN**

"So," started Dean as he bit into his Southern-Style Crispy Chicken Sandwich, "mmmm, wow, Sam you gotta try your sandwich, man. This is freakin' awesome. Almost better than a cheeseburger with extra onions." The older hunter chewed happily, grateful his gastrointestinal issues from the night before were a thing of the past. He picked up a couple of specially seasoned French fries and absently studied them for a moment before shoving them in his mouth. Their heated spice-filled bite brought forth another groan of contentment.

They'd grabbed food on the way back to their "tepee" room where they currently sat surrounded by a multitude of different size pieces of paper containing their notes and impressions regarding the case. Well, okay, Sam's notes and impressions anyway.

He waited until Sam took a bite of his own food, watching with satisfaction as his brother chewed and swallowed, before starting to speak again. "So, what do we have so far?"

Sam licked his fingers, clearing away the large dollop of mayonnaise that had oozed from his sandwich. "Ooh, you're right—this IS good!" He grabbed a napkin and finished wiping his hands before gathering together a few of the papers. "We don't have much. Three victims brutally and sensationally murdered. Two attorneys, one judge. All connected to one court case." Sam paused and took another bite of his food and a long pull of his soda, unconsciously mirroring his brother almost exactly.

"Also prominently connected to that case is one 'Buttons the Freaky Obsessed Wonder Clown'," added Dean.

"Right."

"And this is our kind of gig because . . ."

Picking up where his brother left off, Sam finished the thought, "Because the only clue left at the crime scenes were small, oddly child-like footprints in blood, but no child that size could orchestrate, let alone actually commit, such brutal murders."

"Leaving us with the obvious question—what, not who, did?"

"Exactly."

"Good ol' Bartolo has one of the oldest motives in the book—revenge. But how's he doing it? Voodoo? A conjured spirit maybe?"

Both brothers were lost in thought as they finished eating.

Dean had just polished off the last of his soda when an idea hit, and he snapped his fingers.

"A doll!"

"What?" Sam mumbled around a French fry.

"Maybe it's one of those creepy-assed clown dolls!"

"You mean like that Chucky doll from the movies?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

**SN SN SN**

The doll's face twisted with a maniacal grin, his mouth chock full of barbarous teeth, gleaming. Chaos bypassed the door to the museum for the moment, choosing instead to search the private quarters encompassing the rest of the structure first. As he passed the portrait of Mama Scofield on the wall, he debated just how he wanted to eliminate the coward who'd given him life.

He sniffed the air, trying to scent his prey but smelled nothing except lingering rancid grease, a lifetime of dust, mildew, and an odd pungent sourness that easily spoke of defeat and bitterness and possibly the slightest hint of insanity.

The clown doll moved down the short hallway to the tiny living room. The windowless room held a stained sofa, a 13" TV with bent, foil-tipped rabbit ears on a rickety tray table, and an overturned crate of some sort that held a lamp with a large crack running down its ceramic base. The small, square space offered no hiding places whatsoever, and Chaos turned to leave. But not before he rocked the unsteady tray table, tipping the television and sending it crashing to the floor with a satisfied chuckle.

Retracing his earlier steps, Chaos paused at the base of the stairs, a string of curses snaking past his lips. He hated stairs. His short legs had difficulty navigating them quickly. The doll wouldn't let that stop him, however, as he stepped up the first riser.

**SN SN SN**

"Is there anything like that at all mentioned in Dad's journal," queried Sam.

Dean shook his head. "Not that I recall, but it's not like I have every single sentence memorized. Hell, you know some of his passages are barely readable. But we can look. I'll go get it."

While Dean ran to the car to grab their dad's journal, Sam balled up the empty food wrappers and threw them, along with the cups, in the wastebasket. Grabbing the laptop, he booted it up and was already tapping away at the keyboard by the time Dean stepped back through the door. He glanced up as Dean dropped down on the corner of his bed and cracked open the journal with a studious frown.

The room remained quiet except for the sound of Sam's fingers flying over the keyboard and the occasional sigh escaping past Dean's lips.

"Hey, Dean, got something."

Dean laid the open journal down on the bed and joined his brother at the table.

"Here's a story from 1972, a series of murders in New Orleans. The five victims were all young blonde girls. The killer was never found, but there were rumors at the time that a sixth girl was somehow exacting revenge on the girls for teasing her. The only evidence ever found at any of the scenes were extremely small footprints and a few hairs that were consistent with fake hair used in doll manufacturing."

"So—in all likelihood—death by doll."

"Seems so. And here's another one. Charlottesville, Virginia. 1995. Only three victims this time. Tiny footprints in blood at each scene. No hairs or other evidence though eyewitness swore that a specialty doll was delivered to each victim the day before their deaths, but no such dolls were ever found. Then there's an unsolved case in Muddville, Tennessee, back in 2000. Two victims. Pretty much the same kind of deal."

"All right, so there is a precedent for this. How's it being done though?"

"My guess is some sort of spell. Some kind of bastardized animation spell maybe."

"I don't see anything at all in Dad's journal. Maybe Bobby would have some info?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, lemme give him a call." The tall hunter stood and stretched, relishing the relieving pop of joints stiff from being hunched over. He fished his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed Bobby Singer's number.

**SN SN SN**

After several laborious minutes, Chaos reached the top of the stairs. He paused, his enormous eyes flicking side-to-side, he cackled and called out, "Ready or not, here I come!" Turning to the right, he headed for the first of the two bedrooms on the top floor.

He pushed the door open with a dull thud, taking in the haphazardly stacked boxes and random pieces of broken junk Buttons had stuffed in there. They were all things related to the little man's decrepit museum downstairs. Small as he was, unless Bartolo was the size of a rat, there was no way he was hiding in this room. As he'd done downstairs, Chaos dumped a few of the boxes just for the hell of it.

As he walked down the hall to the second bedroom on the floor, the clown doll chortled, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Again he pushed the door open with a thud, revealing Buttons' Spartan bedroom. As the door bounced off the wall, Chaos shouted, "Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free!" He relished calling out the innocuous phrases like they were playing a game of "Hide and Go Seek" which in fact they were, only a decidedly more deadly version than was ever played by any children.

A deep breath brought the desperate smell of fear to his nose, and he grinned. The doll bent at the waist and looked under the unmade bed whose dirty sheets and blankets hung half off the mattress. Finding the space empty, Chaos clucked his tongue. Straightening, his gaze fell on the closet door and he smiled, once again showing off his razor-sharp teeth. He sauntered to the closet and threw open the door.

"Gotcha!"

**SN SN SN**

"Yeah, okay. Right. Okay, thanks, Bobby." Sam stabbed his thumb at the "End" button, cutting the connection with their friend and mentor. He dropped his phone on the table next to the computer and turned to his brother, who had gone back to scanning the journal.

"Bobby agrees that it's probably some kind of spell or incantation, but he says that it has to be an extremely powerful one. Likely an old one. He says that one way to tell if someone is animating an inanimate object is to look for a small carving somewhere on the object. It would look like a triangle with a circle around it and a dot in the middle."

"All right. So we need to take a good look at those creepy-assed clown dolls at that museum then. Correction—_**I**_ need to take a look at those dolls."

"What? No. No way, Dean."

"It's just a simple recon mission, Sam."

"And what if Buttons is there, huh? What if he catches you?"

"If he manages to catch me, bro, I might as well hang up the hunting hat right now."

"I think we should both go."

"No."

Sam heaved an exasperated sigh. "Why not?"

" 'Cause I'm the big brother and I said so."

"Dean…" Sam said, his voice a low growl.

"Look . . . there's no reason you need to go back to that museum. I know how much it bothered you before."

"Yeah, but I survived, like I did at that carnival. I can…"

"You can stay here."

The words "_where it's safe_" were left unsaid but Sam didn't need to hear them verbalized to know they were there. He felt grateful and pissed off in equal measure. The younger hunter opened his mouth to protest further but Dean cut him off.

"Don't get all bent out of shape. The most logical thing you can do is stay here and do more research—find out how we kill the little bastard. All I have to do is get a look at those dolls. If I find that symbol, we'll know we're on the right track. If fact, I could just bring the damn thing back here with me."

"No!" Recalling the clown dolls showcased in the macabre museum, Sam actually felt a little nauseated at the thought of Dean bringing one of them back to the room.

Puzzled, Dean raised an eyebrow and muttered, "Why not?"

"Bobby said once the object is marked and the initial spell is read, it only takes one or two special words to like _activate_ the thing. If the clown finds it missing and activates it while you're driving, you'd be dead before you knew what hit you."

"Not if I put it in the trunk."

"Yeah, the trunk that pretty much contains an arsenal. Good plan. Besides Bobby says these things have to be destroyed while they're possessed. He doesn't know the method yet, but he's looking."

"All right then. It's settled. As soon as it gets dark, I'll do a little recon."

**SN SN SN**

Bartolo let out a breathless little screech when the closet door flew open, revealing the evil he'd so gleefully brought to life for his own nefarious purposes. Terror tripped across every nerve ending and he surged forward, pushing past the maniacal clown doll and running from the room, never feeling one of the weapons carve a shallow furrow on his thigh. As he ran, he could hear the doll's little feet slapping against the floor right behind him.

Halfway down the stairs, Buttons tripped and he tumbled down the remaining steps, coming to rest at the bottom with a grunt. Shaking his head to clear it, he managed to pull himself up off the floor and run just as Chaos cleared the last two risers. In his panic, he lunged toward the entrance to the museum instead of the front door. It wasn't until he reached the far corner, where two giant funhouse mirrors intersected that he realized his mistake. Bartolo Scofield was trapped with a miniature murderer of his own making. From across the room, he heard the clickety-clackety tune "Pop Goes the Weasel" as Chaos wound up the Jack-in-the-Box Buttons had used to torment the tall man earlier.

_'Round and 'round the cobbler's bench  
The monkey chased the weasel,  
The monkey thought 'twas all in fun  
Pop! Goes the weasel.  
_

In the funhouse mirrors' distorted reflections, Bartolo saw Chaos approach, appearing taller in one and wider in the other simultaneously. In one hand he now carried the repellant toy. The other still clenched the large butcher's knife, its lethal edge already slick with his blood and gleaming menacingly in the dim glow from the one lone security nightlight. Abject terror coursed through the little man, a pungent ammonia odor filling the room and overriding the sour-sweat aroma of desperation, as a warm gush cascaded down his legs.

Bartolo turned to run but slipped in the resultant puddle of his own waste and landed on his back, breath driven from his body. As he lay gasping, urine soaking into his clothes, Chaos pounced on his heaving chest.

Throwing the now-sprung Jack-in-the-Box to the side, the killer clown doll bent low over Buttons' face and muttered, "And here we are. Back in the very room where all of this started, eh, Barty boy?" When the man failed to answer, Chaos sighed and continued, "We've had a good run, haven't we?"

"P-P-Please…" Bartolo found just enough air to beg.

"Please what? Please don't kill you?" The doll chuckled. "But that's what you created me for, Barty boy. To kill. To stop now—well—that would be…criminal." Chaos cackled loud and long at his own joke. "You see, Bartolo Scofield, for you—for you this was all about pitiful and petty revenge. For me…" he paused and cocked his head, taking a deep, appreciative breath, "for me it's been all about fun and games. And I…I just don't intend to stop having fun."

"N-N-No. P-P-Please…" Buttons the Clown squeaked.

Hopping off of the man's chest, the clown doll hefted the strong, sturdy knife high above his head. "Ahhh, dearest Bartolo—Buttons the Clown—I think it's time we severed our relationship!" The weapon fell with a mighty thud.

SN SN SN SN

The laptop lid closed with a soft click. For a brief second, Sam admired his own restraint since what he really wanted to do was heave the computer across the room. He'd been mindlessly staring at the same webpage for the last fifteen minutes. Maybe it was just a matter of his phobia getting the best of him, but worry for Dean had his nerves stretched taut and his thumbnail was milliseconds away from being a bloody stub.

Sam glanced at his watch, noting that his brother had been gone for a little over 45 minutes. Not really long enough to account for his worry. It had to be because of the clowns and his issues from the visit to the museum earlier. Unable to sit still, he catapulted from his chair and began to pace.

A knock at the door interrupted him mid-step. With the natural caution of a hunter, Sam tucked his gun at his back and looked through the peephole before answering the door. Charley, the elderly Native-American proprietor of the motel, stood on the other side. Sam swung the door wide and gestured for the man to enter.

"Hey, Charley."

"Hi, Sam.

"What can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothin'. Nothin' at all. I just brought you and that brother of yours a plate of brownies," Charley held out a glass plate piled high with the chocolate treats. "Male brownies. My daughter brought them over today, but she always brings me too many."

"Um, male brownies?"

"Yeah, you know, the ones with…um…nuts," the old man blushed a little as he realized what he'd just said, "Sorry, it's just an old family joke."

Sam felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and chuckled even as he felt his own cheeks flush slightly. He reached out and accepted the plate. "Hey, thanks. They look good."

"Take one. They're not just good tasting, but good for you—at least according to my daughter. They have flaxseed in 'em."

He wasn't particularly in the mood for dessert at the moment but feeling it necessary to be polite, the tall hunter pulled up the plastic wrap and grabbed a brownie off the plate. The first bite was sheer bliss. Sam finished off the rest of the treat in two bites.

"Just don't eat too many at once," warned Charley.

"Oh? Why not?"

" 'Cause I gotta tell ya, son, that flaxseed Lani uses is an excellent laxative." Charley stopped and rolled his eyes. "Oh, geez, there I go again. Forgive an old man's tongue running away with itself."

Sam put the plate down on the table, knowing Dean's eyes would light up when he saw the goodies. "Eh. No worries, Charley." Sam smiled. "Dean's tongue runs away with itself all the time. I'm used to it."

"Speaking of that brother of yours, where is he?"

**SN SN SN**

After 15 minutes staked out in front of the clown's house/museum, Dean decided it was time to move. He'd observed the place closely in that span of time, and all appeared quiet and still, the windows dark and vacant except for the tiniest glow from the back of the museum—obviously Bartolo's idea of security.

Grabbing his flashlight and lock picking tools from the passenger seat, the hunter headed for the front door. The old lock surrendered easily under his skillful assault, and Dean was inside the building in a matter of seconds. Switching on the flashlight, he did a quick visual sweep of the foyer. Satisfied the space was empty, the hunter strode toward the museum, not interested in the private living area whatsoever.

Dean was surprised when the doorknob turned freely under his hand. The hinges creaked as he pushed the door open and he cringed, wondering for a moment if the noise was loud enough to alert the resident clown to his intrusion.

The smell slammed into him as soon as he stepped across the threshold. It was a smell he well recognized—one that lingered in the nose and almost seemed to rest resolutely on the tongue. Dense, coppery, metallic. Interlaced with other indistinct, but equally nauseating, scents.

It was the poisonous smell of violent death.

SN SN SN

In response to Charley's question, Sam shrugged and offered a generic response. "He's out running an errand. Should be back soon."

"Sam, may I ask you a question?"

"Uh…sure."

"Would this errand he's on be at all dangerous?"

Stunned, Sam stared at the old man, who stared back with uncanny wisdom. Flustered, Sam dropped his chin to his chest and muttered, "What? No. He's…"

Charley shook his head. "You can be honest with me, son. I'm not out to harm either one of you."

Hunter's instinct told Sam the man before him was being completely truthful. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "It shouldn't be dangerous, no. At least not much. But then we never have much in the way of good luck. What made you ask?"

"Call it a feeling. An uneasy—no, a downright bad—feeling. It happens sometimes. In all my many years, I've learned to trust 'em. I've thought since you boys checked in that there was more to ya both than met the eye, but I'm not one to be nosy…at least not much. I've takin' a liking to you both and, well, I just couldn't ignore it. Any chance you wanna tell me what's going on?

**SN SN SN**

Creeping farther into the museum, it didn't take long for Dean to find the body—the headless body—sprawled in a lake of crimson blood. He grimaced at the gruesome sight. Checking for the marked clown doll now was probably a moot point, but Dean stepped around the body and blood puddle to get a look at the display case anyway.

A sound behind him had Dean spinning around, the hair at the nape of his neck prickling with definite unease. Feeling malevolent eyes boring into him, Dean spun in a circle looking for the threat. A flash of white caught his eye and Dean swiveled his head in that direction, a horrified grunt escaping past his lips before he could stop it. Before him was Bartolo's severed head, complete with full clown make up, red nose, and rainbow wig. It sat perched on the seat of the old unicycle, blood from the veins and arteries still sluggishly drip, drip, dripping onto the floor. The sightless, yet piercing, eyes bored into him in the most diabolical way, forcing a shiver up his spine. Bile clawed its way up to his throat, and the young hunter fought it back with tremendous effort and pulled out his cell phone.

**SN SN SN**

Sam opened his mouth and was just about to answer the elderly proprietor when his cell rang. He snatched it up off the table and hit the talk button before the first ring tone ended.

"Dean?"

"_Sam, we've got a problem. We've gotta find a way to kill this little bastard and we've gotta find it fast."_

TBC…


End file.
